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BASIL  EVERMAN. 

MARTIN  LUTHER.  THE  STORY  OF  HIS 
LIFE.      Willi  frontispiece. 

THE  LONG  JOURNEY.  Frontispiece  in 
color. 

EMivttLINE.     Illustrated. 

KATY  GAUMER.     Illustrated. 

GETTYSBURG.     Illustrated. 

WHEN  SARAH  WENT  TO  SCHOOL.  Illus- 
trated. 

WHEN  SARAH  SAVED  THE  DAY.  Illus- 
trated. 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 
Boston  and  New  York 


i 


BASIL  EVERMAN 


BASIL  EVERMAN 


BY 


ELSIE  SINGMASTER 


BOSTON    AND    NEW    YORK 

HOUGHTON  MIFFLIN  COMPANY 

The  Riverside  Press  Cambridge 


COPYRIGHT,  1920,  BY  BLSIB  SINGMASTER  LBWARS 


ALL  RIGHTS  RESERVED 


CONTENTS 

I.  The  Shadow  on  a  Bright  Day  1 

II.  Mother  and  Daughter  13 

III.  A  Waltonville  Commencement  and  an  In- 

quisitive Stranger  28 

IV.  Mr.   Utterly  makes  the  Acquaintance  of 

Mrs.  Scott  45 

V.  Mr.  Utterly  continues  his  Search  54 

VI.  A  New  Piano  67 

VII.  Utterly  spends  a  Pleasant  Evening  83 

VIII.  Utterly  is  put  upon  his  Mettle  93 

IX.  Mrs.  Scott's  Party  101 

X.  "My  Brother  Basil  was  different l"  119 

XI.  A  Duet  and  what  came  of  it  128 

XII.  Growing  Pains  143 

XIII.  Richard  writes  a  Note  155 

XIV.  An  Anxious  Night  164 
XV.  Explanations  176 

XVI.  Further  Explanations  189 

XVII.  Mrs.  Lister  takes  to  her  Bed  208 

XVIII.  Mrs.  Lister  has  two  Callers  223 

XIX.  Mrs.  Lister  opens  an  Old  Bureau  234 

XX.  Basil's  Room  has  a  New  Visitor  239 

4Ci8G0 


vi  CONTENTS 

XXI.  A  Question  i^ut  to  Richard  251 

XXn.  A  Confidence  betrayed  258 

XXIII.  A  Waltonville  Delilah  267 

XXIV.  A  Deepening  Shadow  279 

XXV.  Dr.  Scott  pays  a  Call  286 

XXVI.  "Let  us  be  entirely  frank  with  one  an- 
other" 203 

XXVII.  Epilogue  302 


BASIL  EVERMAN 


BASIL  EVERMAN 

CHAPTER  I 

THE  SHADOW  ON  A  BRIGHT  DAY 

Richard  Lister's  mother  stood  at  the  head  of  the 
stairs  and  called  a  little  impatiently.  She  was  a 
large,  middle-aged  woman  who  looked  older  than 
she  was  in  the  black  silk  dress  and  bonnet  with 
strings  which  was  the  church-  and  party -going  cos- 
tume of  women  of  her  years  and  time.  Middle  age 
had  not  yet  begun  to  dress  in  light  colors  and  flow- 
ery hats  like  youth. 

When,  above  the  sound  of  a  tinkling  piano,  a 
young  voice  answered,  "  I  'm  coming ! "  she  returned 
to  her  room,  without  expecting,  however,  that 
Richard  would  keep  his  promise  at  once. 

Walton  College,  on  whose  campus  Mrs.  Lister 
lived,  of  which  her  husband  was  president,  and  from 
which  her  only  son  was  being  graduated  to-day, 
had  not  yet  dreamed  of  being  a  "greater  Walton." 
Satisfied  with  its  own  modest  aims,  it  had  not 
opened  its  eyes  to  that  "wider  vision"  of  religion 
and  education  and  "  service  "  which  was  to  be  loudlj^- 
proclaimed  by  the  next  generation.  Even  games 
with  other  colleges  were  as  yet  unheard  of;  the 
students  were  still  kept  at  their  books  and  it  was 
expected  of  them  that  they  learn  their  lessons.  Each 
was  required  to  deliver  an  oration  on  Commence- 


2  •  BASIL  EVERMAN 

ment  Day,  the  first  speaker  saluting  in  old-fashioned 
English  pronunciation  Auditores,  Curatores,  Pro- 
fessores,  and  Comites,  and  making  humorous  allu- 
sions to  puelloe.  Only  in  admitting  the  daughters  of 
the  professors,  and  once  an  ambitious  girl  from  the 
village,  was  the  college  a  little  ahead  of  its  own 
times. 

Waltonville,  like  its  college,  belonged  to  an  order 
which  was  elsewhere  passing.  Lying  a  little  north 
of  Mason  and  Dixon's  line,  it  resembled  in  many 
pleasant  ways  a  Southern  town.  The  broad  streets 
were  quiet  and  thickly  shaded  and  the  houses  were 
plainly  built  of  red  brick  with  noble  white  pillars. 
The  young  people  gathered  in  the  twilight  and 
talked  and  sang;  occasionally  a  group  of  students 
lifted  their  voices  in  Integer  Vitce  or  "There's 
Music  in  the  Air";  and  those  citizens  who  lived 
near  the  campus  could  hear  a  chanted  "bonus-a- 
um"  or  "  amo-amas-amat "  from  the  room  of  the 
Latin  professor,  who  was  a  stern  drillmaster.  Other- 
wise the  village  was  as  quiet  as  the  country. 

The  Civil  War  was  still  the  chief  topic  of  discus- 
sion among  the  older  men.  Dr.  Lister,  Dr.  Scott,  who 
was  the  teacher  of  English  —  Waltonville  was  care- 
ful about  titles  —  and  Dr.  Green,  the  village  physi- 
cian, met  many  times  in  the  long  vacation  and 
talked  about  Grant  and  Sherman  and  Lee.  Dr. 
Lister  had  served  a  brief  term  at  the  end  of  the 
war;  Dr.  Scott  had  been  too  young  to  enlist,  but 
had  lost  father  and  brothers;  Dr.  Green,  who  was 
still  younger,  had  had  no  personal  experience  of 
war,  nor,  so  far  as  any  one  knew,  of  its  losses. 


THE  SHADOW  ON  A  BRIGHT  DAY  3 

Of  Dr.  Green,  Waltonville  knew  comparatively 
little.  Mrs.  Lister  remembered  his  single  year  at  the 
college,  whither  he  had  come,  self -prepared,  to 
enter  the  senior  class.  An  unexpected  legacy  had 
given  him  the  opportunity,  passionately  desired 
and  as  passionately  despaired  of,  of  studying  medi- 
cine. He  was  older  than  the  other  students,  a  tall, 
dark,  quiet  man  who  allowed  himself  no  diver- 
sions, who  belonged  to  no  fraternities,  and  who 
cared  nothing  apparently  for  girls.  His  companions 
knew,  however,  that  he  was  not  always  silent. 
He  burst  occasionally  into  fierce  and  eloquent 
harangues,  condemning  and  scorning  those  who 
wasted  their  time  in  idleness  or  love-making.  His 
successful  efforts  to  educate  himself  gave  him  an 
air  of  authority.  The  students  knew  also  that  he 
went  now  and  then,  as  many  of  them  did,  to  see 
Margie  Ginter,  the  daughter  of  the  hotel-keeper, 
but  they  believed  that  he  went  merely  to  be  amused 
by  her  bad  grammar,  and  that  for  him  her  round 
figure,  her  childish  mouth,  and  the  touches  of  her 
pretty  hand  on  arm  or  knee  had  no  temptation. 
When  the  Ginters  left,  Margie  sent  back  to  him 
letters  with  misspelled  addresses  which  the  students 
did  not  believe  he  ansv/ered. 

After  being  entirely  lost  to  the  view  of  Walton- 
ville, Green  returned.  He  had  become  a  physician, 
but  the  four  j^ears  of  preparation  had  lengthened 
to  six,  during  which  he  had  changed  into  a  weary 
and  disappointed  man.  He  had  come,  he  explained, 
to  see  old  Dr.  Percy,  now  retiring  from  his  practice, 
and  offering  the  good-will  of  his  business  for  sale. 


4  BASIL  EVERMAN 

He  had  hoped  that  Dr.  Everman  would  recom- 
mend him  and  that  others  would  remember  him. 
When  he  heard  that  Dr.  Everman  had  died,  he 
expressed  to  Mrs.  Lister  so  hearty  an  admiration 
for  her  imposing  and  learned  father  and  so  un- 
feigned a  regret  that  he  was  gone,  that  he  won  at 
once  her  valuable  support.  It  was  not  long  before 
he  ceased  to  look  like  a  beaten  man,  his  thin  frame 
filled  out,  he  walked  briskly,  and  began  to  exhibit 
some  of  the  scolding  eloquence  of  his  college  days. 

In  Waltonville  class  distinctions  continued.  The 
college  people,  the  clergymen.  Dr.  Green,  and  the 
lawyers  who  attended  a  sleepy  court  in  April  and 
August,  made  up  one  class;  all  other  white  persons 
another.  The  servants  were  negroes  who  lived  in 
low,  neat  cabins  along  a  grassy  lane  which  bounded 
the  town  on  its  eastern  side.  Waltonville  had  never 
been  a  slave-holding  community,  but  some  of  the 
older  negroes  had  been  attached  to  the  same  fam- 
ily for  several  generations.  'Manda  Gates,  Mrs. 
Lister's  cook,  had  served  her  mother,  and  Miss 
Thomasina  Davis's  'Melia  had  held  her  in  her 
arms  the  day  she  was  born. 

There  was  neither  strife  nor  envy  between  Wal- 
tonville's  classes.  Mrs.  Lister  respected  Mr.  Under- 
wood, the  storekeeper,  but  did  not  invite  him  to 
dinner,  and  Mrs.  Underwood  would  have  been 
greatly  disturbed  at  the  prospect  of  entertaining 
Mrs.  Lister. 

The  old  house,  in  whose  exact  center  Mrs.  Lister 
stood  when  she  called  Richard,  had  been  built  sixty 
years  earlier  for  her  father,   President  Richard 


THE  SHADOW  ON  A  BRIGHT  DAY  5 

Everman,  and  had  descended  to  his  son-in-law  and 
successor.  It  was  a  broad,  pleasant  house  with  high 
ceilings  and  with  woodwork  of  solid  oak.  One  side 
of  the  first  floor  was  divided  into  library  and  sitting- 
room  and  the  other  into  dim,  long  double  parlors. 
Dining-room  and  kitchen  were  in  a  wing  at  the 
back. 

On  a  level  with  Mrs.  Lister  the  bedrooms  opened 
each  with  an  elaborately  dressed  and  inviting  bed, 
dim  in  the  pleasant  light  which  filtered  in  through 
bowed  shutters.  Above  in  the  third  story  were 
other  bedrooms  and  a  large,  otherwise  empty  attic 
in  which  stood  the  reservoir  which  held  the  supply 
of  water  for  the  house.  As  a  little  girl,  she  had  come 
with  her  two  companions,  her  brother  Basil  and 
Thomasina  Davis,  to  steal  short  peeps  at  the  tank 
in  which  they  could  easily  have  been  drowned.  She 
was  the  only  one  of  the  three  who  was  really  afraid. 
Thomasina  insisted  upon  running  boldly  into  the 
room  and  little  Basil  was  found  afterwards  there 
alone.  Basil's  desire  to  investigate  was  always 
keener  than  his  fear  of  danger. 

Having  waited  for  ten  minutes,  Mrs.  Lister  now 
returned  to  her  post  in  the  hall,  and  raised  her 
voice  in  three  successive  calls.  At  the  last  impatient 
summons,  the  piano  in  the  parlor  ceased  its  clangor 
with  a  series  of  great  chords,  rolling  under  a  fine, 
clear  touch  from  the  lowest  of  the  yellowed  keys  to 
the  uppermost  treble.  In  the  bass  the  tones  were 
indescribably  mournful,  as  though  the  aged  instru- 
ment cried  out  in  pain  under  the  strong  fingers  of 
youth;  in  the  treble  they  sounded  a  light  cackle. 


6  BASIL  EVERIVIAN 

half  childish,  half  senile,  like  the  laughter  of  an  old 
man.  The  pirfno,  bought  years  ago  for  Basil,  re- 
sembled an  old  man  in  many  ways;  its  teeth  were 
yellow,  it  creaked  as  though  rheumatism  had  taken 
a  permanent  abode  in  its  joints,  and  it  was  swathed 
in  a  covering  of  warm  red  felt.  Though  it  was  the 
only  object  in  Mrs.  Lister's  house  which  was  not 
exactly  adapted  to  the  use  to  which  it  was  put,  and 
though  it  reminded  her  of  misery,  she  would  not 
have  dreamed  of  selling  it  or  of  giving  it  away  ot 
of  exchanging  it  for  another  instrument,  any  more 
than  she  would  have  sold  or  given  away  or  ex- 
changed an  aged  relative.  A  piano  once  was  a  piano 
forever,  and  no  dismal  sound  from  its  depths,  no 
fierce  sarcasm  from  Richard  could  depreciate  it  in 
her  eyes. 

"Richard!"  Before  the  player  had  righted  the 
piano  stool  or  had  closed  the  square  lid  over  the 
yellowed  keys,  Mrs.  Lister  called  again. 

"Yes,  mother!" 

He  took  the  stairway  in  four  great  leaps,  the  last 
of  which  his  mother  stepped  aside  to  avoid.  But 
she  did  not  escape  the  bear's  hug  with  which  he 
grasped  her.  He  was  a  tall,  spare  young  fellow, 
scarcely  more  than  a  lad,  with  crisp,  light  hair  and 
dark  eyes. 

"Yes,  mother!  Yes,  mother!  Yes,  mother!" 

"Your  cap  and  gown  are  there  on  my  bed,  and 
you  must  change  your  tie  and  do  it  quickly." 

"The  procession  will  form  in  one  half -hour, 
mother,  and  they  can't  possibly  begin  till  I  tune 
up.  I  have  half  a  mind  to  be  late  so  I  can  see  'em 


THE  SHADOW  ON  A  BRIGHT  DAY  7 

squirm."  Richard  took  the  tie  from  his  mother's 
hand  and  stationed  himself  before  the  glass  in  her 
bedroom,  where  the  walnut  furniture  was  heaviest 
and  most  elaborately  carved.  "Think  of  it,  my  last 
morning  in  chapel!  No  more  eight  o'clocks!  No 
more  Pol  Econ,  no  more  Chemistry,  no  more  worth- 
less stuff  of  any  sort!" 

"I  hope  you  know  your  speech  thoroughly ^ 
Richard." 

"I  do,  oh,  I  do!" 

"I  could  never  memorize  well,  and  I  was  always 
frightened  when  I  had  to  say  a  piece  in  school. 
Are  n't  you  at  all  nervous?" 

"Not  at  all.  I'm  cool-headed  and  cold-hearted. 
Morituri  te  salutamus,  that  is,  'We,  about  to  die, 
salute  you!'" 

"You  are  not  going  to  say  that,  Richard!" 

"No,  mother,  darling!"  Richard  folded  his  black 
gown  about  him.  "I  bow  like  this,  till  my  long 
wings  touch  the  ground,  and  I  say,  'Alius  annus 
cum  perpetua  sua  agitatione  abiit,  et  alia  classis  in 
vitcB  limine  est^  etc.  Would  n't  old  Jehu  skin  me 
alive  if  I  failed?  It  is  bad  enough  that  Eleanor 
Bent  is  ahead  of  me,  of  me,  if  you  please  —  faculty 
family  and  all  that.  Now,  good-bye,  mother.  Have 
a  little  more  faith  in  me  than  you  look,  or  I  may 
rush  to  your  shoulder  weeping."  With  a  "Farewell, 
great  Queen,  live  forever,"  and  a  light  touch  of  lips 
on  his  mother's  broad,  smooth  cheek,  he  was  gone, 
down  the  polished  banister. 

When  the  screen  door  had  slammed,  Mrs.  Lister 
sat  for  a  while  quietly  by  her  bed.  There  was,  now 


8  BASIL  EVERMAN 

that  Richard  was  started,  plenty  of  time.  She  had 
been  up  since  six  o'clock,  but  she  was  not  tired, 
being  a  person  of  almost  inexhaustible  vigor.  The 
house  was  in  perfect  order,  'Manda  was  singing  in 
the  kitchen,  and  she  had  a  short  breathing  space. 
She  loved  those  moments  in  which,  her  tasks  fin- 
ished, she  could  sit  perfectly  still,  almost  without 
thinking,  yet  vividly  conscious  of  her  blessings, 
of  her  good  husband,  of  her  fine  son,  and  of  her 
pleasant  home. 

Above  all,  she  was  thankful  that  she  was  con- 
tent, that  she  was  driven  by  no  wild  impulses  as 
was  Thomasina  Davis,  who  often  sat  with  her  in 
the  morning  and  in  the  evening  heard  a  concert 
in  Baltimore.  She  visited  Baltimore  —  which  she 
called  "Baltimer"  —  in  the  fall  and  again  in  the 
spring,  after  having  made  detailed,  dignified,  and 
long-announced  plans,  and  there,  with  the  aid  of 
a  commissionnaire,  made  her  purchases  for  six 
months.  She  enjoyed  these  journeys,  but  she  was 
always  glad  to  get  home  with  her  silks  and  linens, 
her  little  stories  of  the  courteous  attentions  of  the 
Baltimoreans,  of  the  baked  blue-fish,  and  of  the 
stately  house  of  her  old  cousin  on  Fayette  Street. 

But  now,  even  with  all  her  morning's  work  done 
and  Richard  started  on  his  way,  she  was  not  at 
peace.  His  playing  disturbed  her,  not  because  the 
piano  was  old  and  gave  forth  so  many  painful 
sounds,  but  because  music  had  sad  associations. 
She  believed  that  it  roused  strange  passions  in  the 
human  heart,  that  it  made  men  and  women  queer, 
abnormal,  sometimes  even  wicked.  It  was  con- 


THE  SHADOW  ON  A  BRIGHT  DAY  9 

nected  in  her  mind  with  a  quaHty  called  "genius" 
which  animated  the  minds  of  poets  and  musicians 
and  artists  and  made  them  a  little  more  than  hu- 
man and  at  the  same  time  a  good  deal  less.  It  was 
a  general  conviction  among  quiet  people  of  the  time 
that  those  who  could  write  or  paint  or  sing  beyond 
a  mere  amateur  excellence  were  "wild,"  like  poor 
Mr.  Poe,  about  whom  a  tradition  lingered  among 
her  Baltimore  cousins.  Genius  was  not  a  necessary 
part  of  greatness ;  her  father  and  her  husband  were 
great  men,  but  they  were  also  sober,  dignified,  com- 
prehensible, reasonable,  which  geniuses  were  not. 

Thomasina  Davis  had  wrong  ideas  and  she  put 
them  into  Richard's  head.  She  had  spent  all  but 
three  years  of  her  life  in  Waltonville,  but  those 
three  in  New  York,  under  the  instruction  of  a 
famous  pianist,  had  made  her  wish  to  be  a  concert 
player.  Fortunately  family  duties  had  called  her 
home,  and  now,  those  duties  long  since  done,  she 
lived  alone  in  the  homestead  set  back  in  the  garden 
on  the  street  which  led  to  the  college.  While  she 
condemned  Thomasina,  Mrs.  Lister  remembered 
with  a  stirring  of  the  heart  all  the  hundreds  of 
times  she  had  pressed  her  latch.  Thomasina  had 
three  pupils;  Cora  Scott,  who  attained  technical 
correctness;  Eleanor  Bent,  who  played  with  all  the 
imperfect  brilliancy  of  one  who  learns  easily;  and 
Richard,  who  attained  both  correctness  and  bril- 
liancy. Mrs.  Lister  explained  to  strangers  that 
Thomasina  did  not  need  to  give  lessons;  she  blushed 
when  her  quarterly  bill  arrived,  and  shivered  when 
she  heard  her  talk  to  Richard  about  playing. 


10  BASIL  EVERlNLiN 

"You  must  read  poetry,  Richard,  and  feel  it; 
that  is  the  way  and  the  only  way  for  youth  to  gain 
emotional  experience. 

*  Magic  mirror  thou  hast  none 
Except  thy  manifest  heart;  and  save  thine  own 
Anguish  or  ardor,  else  no  amulet.* 

When  you  have  learned  to  feel,  then  you  can  play." 
Richard  was  not  a  genius  —  thank  God !  It 
seemed  impossible  that  he  should  be  graduating; 
that  he  should  be  no  longer  her  lovely,  placid  baby, 
who  had  done  so  much  to  heal  an  old  hurt.  Though 
he  would  have  to  go  away  for  a  few  years  for  fur- 
ther study,  he  would  come  back  to  teach  in  the  col- 
lege and  would  perhaps  some  day  be  its  president, 
like  his  father  and  grandfather.  Then  she  could 
stay  on  in  the  house  which  was  like  the  outer  shell 
of  her  soul,  not  to  leave  it  until  she  left  this  life. 
Richard  might  marry —  ought  to  marry  —  a  pretty, 
biddable  girl  like  Cora  Scott.  Cora  would  do  her 
duty  by  her  mother-in-law. 

Mrs.  Lister's  life,  now  so  uneventful,  had  had 
its  great  sorrow,  its  unsatisfied  passion.  There  was 
another  love,  stronger  almost  than  that  for  husband 
and  son,  because  its  object  needed  no  longer  the 
loving  affection  which  sought  to  serve  him,  had 
never,  indeed,  needed  it  while  he  lived. 

It  was  at  such  times  as  this,  upon  holidays,  anni- 
versaries, and  other  great  days,  that  she  thought 
most  of  the  past,  most  of  her  father  in  his  white 
stock  and  his  bands,  he  having  been  a  clergyman 
as  well  as  a  scholar;  of  her  mother  who  seemed  to 


THE  SHADOW  ON  A  BRIGHT  DAY  11 

her  dim  recollection  very  different  from,  but  who 
was,  nevertheless,  very  much  like  herself;  and  most 
of  all  of  her  brother  Basil,  for  whom  she  had  the 
rare  and  passionate  affection  of  sister  for  brother 
of  a  Dorothy  Wordsworth  or  a  Eugenie  de  Guerin; 
that  affection  which  equals  in  intensity  a  lover's, 
which  brooks  no  rival,  and  which  is  almost  certain 
to  result  in  misery. 

She  thought  of  them  all  now,  sitting  in  her  room. 
She  could  hear  the  laughter  of  the  faculty  and  the 
boys  and  girls  gathering  for  the  procession;  she 
knew  that  it  was  time  for  her  to  go,  but  she  could 
not  move.  How  long,  long  ago  it  all  was!  Yet  how 
close  they  were,  especially  Basil,  who  had  been  of 
all  most  vivid,  most  bright. 

Presently,  moved  by  an  irresistible  impulse,  she 
left  her  chair  by  the  window  and  climbed  the  stairs 
into  the  low-pitched  third  story.  There  she  laid  her 
hand  upon  a  door.  She  desired  intensely  to  go  in; 
the  touch  of  the  knob  restored  to  her  an  old  mood 
of  grief,  the  phase  in  which  one  feels  that  seeking, 
importuning,  one  must  find.  Basil  was  here;  his 
wide,  bright  gaze  sought  her  eyes,  as  she  often 
fancied,  with  reproach.  All  dead  persons  seemed  to 
Mrs.  Lister  to  look  like  that;  her  father  did,  as  she 
remembered  some  little  service  unrendered,  some 
command  forgotten.  Basil's  gaze  was  like  his  fa- 
ther's, yet  different.  He  seemed  to  reproach,  not  his 
sister,  but  his  Creator  for  having  laid  him  low,  ban- 
ishing him  from  the  sunshine  when  his  contempora- 
ries still  had  years  of  life  before  them. 

This  was  his  room;  here  he  had  slept  and  idled 


n  BASIL  EVERMAN 

and  whistled  and  sung;  here  had  been  unpacked 
and  put  away  hil  belongings  sent  home  after  he 
was  dead;  here  Hngered  still  an  odor  of  disinfectants 
and  still  more  subtly  an  odor  of  tobacco,  not  ap- 
proved of  in  the  Lister  house;  here  were  his  pens 
and  pencils  and  his  books,  shabby  little  editions  of 
Greek  plays,  lined  and  annotated,  which  he  carried 
about  with  him.  Here  he  had  sat  by  the  window, 
indifferent  to  heat  and  cold,  alone,  doing,  alas! 
nothing.  Surely  if  she  entered  she  would  find  him, 
would  hear  him  speak,  would  see  him  smile! 
Surely  — 

Mrs.  Lister  took  her  hand  from  the  knob  and 
went  down  the  steps.  This  was  Richard's  Com- 
mencement Day;  it  was  wrong  to  give  her  mind 
free  course  in  the  region  which  invited.  Basil  was 
at  peace;  must  be  at  peace,  nothing  could  disturb 
him.  He  was  gone  almost  entirely  from  human 
recollection.  The  old  fear  that  the  world  might 
come  to  know  about  him,  that  things  might  be 
"found  out,"  was  laid.  She,  too,  must  forget  him; 
that  was  the  only  way  to  live.  Dr.  Lister  had  said, 
many  years  ago,  that  Basil's  belongings  should  be 
destroyed;  that  this  was  the  first  step  toward  her 
recovery.  But  Dr.  Lister  spoke  of  him  no  more  and 
to  Richard  he  was  a  vague  ghost.  Changes  in  the 
faculty  of  the  college,  the  death  of  old  friends  in  the 
town  had  contributed  to  forgetfulness.  Most  of  all, 
Mrs.  Lister's  own  grief  was  of  the  variety  which 
endures  no  mention  of  the  dead  and  which  creates 
the  oblivion  which  it  is  likely  most  bitterly  to  re- 
sent. Basil  was  dead  and  forgotten. 


CHAPTER  II 

MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER 

In  a  little  house  overlooking  the  fields  on  the  far 
side  of  Waltonville,  where  Mrs.  Margie  Bent,  of 
Waltonville's  middle  class,  lived  with  her  daughter 
Eleanor,  preparations  for  Commencement  were  in 
progress.  The  house  was  pale  gray  in  color,  and  had 
about  its  little  porch  a  mass  of  pink  climbing  roses 
with  dark  foliage  and  thick  clusters  of  bloom.  Be- 
fore it  lay  a  smooth  lawn,  and  back  of  it  a  tiny 
garden,  symmetrically  divided  by  grass  paths. 
There  were  no  outbuildings,  there  was  no  stick  or 
weed;  the  little  establishment  looked  like  a  play- 
house or  the  model  for  an  architect's  picture.  One 
did  not  ascribe  to  its  inhabitants  any  academic 
aspirations. 

Waltonville  was  accustomed  to  think  of  the  little 
house  as  "back  of"  the  town.  Yet  the  town  was  in 
a  truer  sense  back  of  the  little  gray  house,  which 
looked  out  upon  a  wide  sweep  of  open  country. 
Before  it  the  fields  dipped  in  a  long  and  beautiful 
slope,  then  rose  a  few  miles  away  to  a  low  range  of 
blue  hills.  A  part  of  the  land  was  cultivated,  but 
there  remained  many  stretches  of  woodland,  espe- 
cially along  a  wandering  stream  whose  silver  course 
could  be  followed  for  a  long  distance,  and  from 
which  rose  mist,  now  in  thick,  obscuring  masses, 
now  in  transparent  vapor.  Beyond  the  low  hills 


14  BASIL  EVERMAN 

was  another  highfr  range.  Here  and  there  in  the 
pleasant  valley  were  farmhouses  and  large  barns 
whose  dimensions  and  design  were  copied  from  the 
barns  of  Lancaster  County  not  many  miles  away. 

Within  the  little  house  was  the  same  clean  pretti- 
ness.  The  furniture  was  simple  and  plain  and  there 
was  a  great  deal  of  exquisite  hand-sewing;  hem- 
stitching on  the  white  curtains,  heavy  initials  on 
the  linen,  and  beautiful  embroidery  on  Eleanor's 
clothes  in  the  closets.  In  the  little  parlor  stood  a 
bookcase  filled  with  handsome  and  well-chosen 
books,  and  in  the  dining-room  there  were  both 
bookcase  and  desk,  the  latter  now  neatly  closed. 

Little  Mrs.  Bent  was  helping  her  tall  daughter 
into  the  Commencement  dress  which  she  had  made 
with  her  own  unresting  hands.  Her  fair  hair  curled 
about  her  forehead,  her  short  upper  lip  made  her 
look  like  a  little  girl,  and  her  whole  appearance  was 
at  once  attractive  and  pathetic.  Mrs.  Scott,  whose 
inquisitive  spirit  made  her  wish  to  know  every  one 
in  Waltonville  by  sight  and  as  much  about  each 
person  as  she  could  discover,  said  of  Mrs.  Bent  that 
she  looked  and  acted  like  a  lady,  though  she  was 
none.  Thomasina  Davis,  whose  kindly  spirit  made 
her  judge  her  acquaintances  with  sympathy,  said 
that  she  believed  that  Mrs.  Bent  was  a  good  woman 
who  had  suffered  cruelly.  Thomasina  remembered 
her  perfectly  as  Margie  Ginter,  the  daughter  of  the 
most  unpleasant,  sodden,  law-breaking  tavern- 
keeper  Waltonville  had  ever  had,  but  did  not  think 
evil  of  her  on  that  account.  She  knew  that  Margie 
had  been  light  as  thistledown,  too  easily  pleased. 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  15 

too  careless  of  the  company  she  kept,  entirely  too 
free  with  her  smiles,  and  a  source  of  anxiety  to  the 
mothers  of  the  young  men  of  the  town  and  to  those 
who  had  the  well-being  of  the  college  boys  at  heart; 
but  she  did  not  believe  any  of  the  serious  accusa- 
tions made  against  her  by  the  older  women;  had 
not  believed  them  when  they  were  made  and  did 
not  believe  them  now  that  they  were  occasionally 
recalled. 

Margie  had  left  Waltonville  long  ago  with  her 
father  for  another  tavern  in  another  State,  and 
after  a  few  years  had  returned  with  a  married  name 
and  with  a  little  girl  whom  she  called  "Nellie,"  and 
with  means  for  very  simple  living.  Whether  her 
income  had  its  source  in  the  ill-gotten  gains  of  her 
father  or  in  the  property  of  a  deceased  husband, 
or  in  some  other  less  creditable  source,  Waltonville 
did  not  know.  A  few  persons  speculated  about  her 
when  she  returned,  but  she  and  her  little  daughter 
were  soon  accepted  and  ignored. 

If  there  had  been  any  one  to  compare  Margie 
Ginter  with  Mrs.  Bent,  he  would  scarcely  have 
believed  her  to  be  the  same  person.  Margie  Ginter 
had  lived  indifferently  in  a  miserable  tavern;  Mrs. 
Bent  conducted  her  little  house  with  the  most  ex- 
quisite tidiness,  and  maintained  therein  the  most 
perfect  order.  Her  linens  were  less  elegant  than 
Mrs.  Lister's,  but  they  were  no  less  beautifully 
laundered,  no  less  elaborately  marked.  Margie  had 
longed  for  constant  company,  and  a  succession 
of  the  most  idle  of  pleasures;  Mrs.  Bent  shrank 
even  from  the  back-door  calls  of  her  neighbors. 


16  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Margie  had  been  confident,  assured  in  all  her  mo- 
tions, and  almost* impertinent  in  her  glances  at 
those  whose  disapproval  she  surmised;  Mrs.  Bent 
was  humble,  even  frightened.  Margie  had  never 
gone  to  church,  but  Mrs.  Bent  took  a  little  side  pew 
in  the  college  church  and  sat  there  at  each  service. 
To  Margie  had  come  some  mighty  metamorphosis, 
changing  her  instincts,  changing  her  very  soul,  as 
completely  as  a  human  body  could  have  changed 
its  position  at  a  "Right-about  face."  The  process 
had  not  been  easy;  it  had  written  pathetic  lines  in 
the  countenance  which  had  once  expressed  only 
light-heartedness. 

The  tall  daughter  whom  she  was  helping  into  her 
embroidered  Commencement  dress  was  as  dark 
as  her  mother  was  fair  and  as  direct  of  gaze  as  her 
mother  was  timid.  Her  gray  eyes  were  singularly 
clear  and  bright;  they  held  the  glance  so  that  her 
other  features,  beautiful  as  they  were,  became 
unimportant.  Her  other  features,  except  her  nose 
and  her  upper  lip,  were  like  her  mother's;  she  had 
evidently  a  maternal  inheritance,  permeated  and 
strengthened  by  a  different  strain. 

She  had  not  inherited,  it  was  clear,  from  little 
Mrs.  Bent  the  good  mind  which  put  her  at  the  head 
of  her  class  in  college.  Mrs.  Bent  was  not  a  dull 
person,  and  she  had  certainly  strength  of  will,  but 
she  had  no  aptitude  for  books  even  though  she 
sat  from  time  to  time  with  one  of  Eleanor's  volumes 
in  her  hand  and  listened  for  hours  together  while 
Eleanor  read  to  her.  Sometimes  when  her  daughter 
was  not  about  she  looked  in  a  puzzled,  frightened 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  17 

way  over  what  Eleanor  had  been  reading,  and  she 
kept  an  old  grammar  hidden  under  a  pile  of  neatly 
folded  clothes  in  her  bureau  drawer. 

Poor  little  Mrs.  Bent  made  a  brave  effort  to 
follow  her  swan  in  her  flight.  She  had  not,  however, 
risen  far,  even  in  her  effort  to  speak  as  others 
spoke.  Her  mistakes  were  those  of  a  low  stratum. 
Falling  from  her  pretty  lips  in  her  youth  and  heard 
by  uncritical  ears,  they  had  not  seemed  so  dreadful. 
Now  they  were  shocking.  In  her  anxiety  to  do  well, 
she  sometimes  formed  new  words  upon  the  analogy 
of  those  which  she  knew. 

"I  thicken  it  with  cream  and  I  thinnen  it  with 
vinegar,"  she  would  say  sweetly. 

Sometimes  a  sudden  "them  there,"  long  pruned 
from  Eleanor's  speech,  slipped  from  her  mother's 
tongue.  "Them  there"  Mrs.  Bent  knew  was  execra- 
ble and  was  tortured  by  that  knowledge. 

Eleanor  was  now  almost  twenty  years  old,  and 
seldom  do  twenty  years  flow  with  such  smooth 
current.  She  could  not  remember  when  she  had 
come  to  Waltonville  to  live,  and  she  could  recall 
distinctly  only  one  incident  in  her  life  before  she 
started  to  the  village  school.  Children,  in  families 
where  the  past  is  frequently  referred  to,  recall,  or 
imagine  that  they  recall,  many  incidents,  but  to 
Eleanor  nothing  was  recalled. 

The  single  incident  which  she  remembered  was 
impressed  upon  her  by  terror.  Her  mother  and  she 
were  walking  together  upon  a  shady  street  when  a 
man  stopped  them  and  spoke  to  them.  "So  you've 
come  back,  Margie!"  was  all  that  Eleanor  could 


18  BASIL  EVERMAN 

remember  but  the  words  remained  in  her  mind. 
The  man  had  laid  his  hand  on  her  mother's  arm, 
and  Mrs.  Bent  had  jerked  away  and  had  hurried 
down  the  street.  Eleanor  had  seen  the  man  a  hun- 
dred times  since,  a  heavy,  dissipated  creature 
named  Bates  who  sat  all  day  on  the  porch  of  the 
hotel. 

When  she  went  to  school  the  teacher,  a  newcomer 
in  Waltonville,  asked  her  her  father's  name  and  she 
had  stood  bewildered. 

"Her  father  is  dead,  I  guess,"  said  the  little  girl 
next  to  her. 

Eleanor  nodded  solemnly.  A  day  or  two  later, 
when  the  teacher's  question  came  to  her  mind  again, 
she  repeated  it  to  her  mother.  Mrs.  Bent,  whose 
experience  had  not  prepared  her  for  the  questions 
of  a  first  day  in  school,  stared  at  her  daughter. 

"The  teacher  asked  me,  and  a  little  girl  said  she 
guessed  he  was  dead,  and  so  I  said  he  was  dead. 
Was  that  right,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Bent's  face  grew  deathly  pale,  so  that  long 
afterwards  the  incident  came  back  to  Eleanor. 

"Yes,  that  was  right,"  said  she. 

Another  problem  suggested  itself. 

"Were  we  ever  away  from  here?" 

"Why  do  you  ask  that?" 

"Because  that  man  said,  *So  you've  come 
back.'" 

Mrs.  Bent  shivered.  "Yes,  we  were  away  from 
here  once.  Don't  think  of  that  man,  and  don't  ever 
speak  to  him.  If  he  comes  toward  you,  you  run, 
Nellie."  Then  Mrs.  Bent  took  the  Uttle  girl  roughly 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  19 

by  the  arm.  "Children  should  be  seen  and  not 
heard  —  remember  that!" 

From  Eleanor's  first  year  in  school  a  few  vivid 
experiences  remained.  Racing  home,  she  had  fallen 
and  had  cut  her  head  and  several  stitches  had  to 
be  put  in  under  her  thick  hair.  A  neighbor,  running 
for  the  old  doctor,  had  returned  with  the  newcomer. 
Dr.  Green,  who  had  dismissed  the  spectators  and 
had  hurt  her  terribly.  Then  he  had  carried  her  to 
bed,  where  she  slept  for  a  long  time  and  waked  with 
a  burning  pain  in  her  head,  the  first  pain  she  had 
ever  had. 

When  he  came  the  next  day,  she  was  better  and 
he  had  sat  by  her  bed  for  a  long  time,  asking  her 
question  after  question  about  her  lessons.  He  spoke 
in  a  stern,  fierce  tone,  as  though  nothing  about  her 
education  or  about  the  world  pleased  him.  He  cor- 
rected savagely  her  inherited  errors  in  speech  as 
though  he  could  re-make  her  language  in  a  morning. 
Her  eyes  closed  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence,  and 
when  she  woke  he  was  no  longer  in  the  room.  But 
it  seemed  to  her  that  a  voice  was  still  about,  going 
on  and  on  and  on.  Another  excited  voice  made 
answer  after  a  long  time,  "I  ain't  a-goin'  to  do  it!" 
If  it  was  Dr.  Green's  voice  and  if  it  was  to  Mrs. 
Bent  that  he  was  speaking,  their  knowledge  of  one 
another  had  advanced  far  beyond  the  stage  of  cas- 
ual acquaintance.  Their  dialogue  was  not  a  con- 
versation, but  a  quarrel. 

The  next  day,  when  Eleanor  sat  up  against  the 
pillows,  Dr.  Green  brought  her  a  book.  He  had 
written  "Eleanor"  on  the  fly-leaf. 


90  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"Nellie  Is  a  nonsensical  name,"  he  declared.  "It 
must  be  changed.' 

Eleanor  looked  at  her  mother. 

"I  don't  care,"  said  Mrs.  Bent.  If  Eleanor  had 
been  dragged  from  the  grave  instead  of  suffering  a 
small  scalp  wound,  she  could  have  been  no  more 
terrified.  Her  face  was  tear-stained,  her  color  was 
gone,  and  one  hand  closed  and  opened  constantly 
upon  the  other.  In  her  eyes  shone  not  only  anguish, 
but  a  fierce  anger.  She  seemed  to  take  little  pleasure 
in  this  friend  of  her  youth. 

The  picture  book  was  the  first  of  a  long  series  of 
books  which  appeared  in  the  little  house.  First 
came  story-books,  wonder-tales,  fairy-tales,  "Rob- 
inson Crusoe,"  "Swiss  Family  Robinson,"  then  a 
set  of  Scott,  then  poetry.  Presently  a  bookcase  had 
to  be  bought,  then  another. 

She  was  allowed  to  go  henceforth  to  Dr.  Green's 
untidy  office,  or,  at  least,  her  mother  did  not  re- 
prove her  when  she  came  late  from  school  because 
Dr.  Green  had  called  to  her  to  stop,  or  to  climb  into 
his  buggy  and  go  with  him  into  the  country.  She 
had  ceased  to  be  afraid  of  him;  once  or  twice  she 
ventured  a  shy  touch  of  hand.  There  was  a  need  in 
little  Eleanor's  soul  which  he  supplied,  a  precocious 
intellectual  curiosity  which  was  now  wakening. 
Presently  she  began  to  ask  questions  and  Dr. 
Green  answered  them.  Curt  and  positive  as  he  was 
with  others,  he  never  was  curt  with  her.  He  some- 
times examined  her  to  see  what  she  had  retained, 
and  smiled  to  himself  over  the  success  of  his  teach- 
ings. Eleanor  had  gained  all  unconsciously  a  knowl- 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  21 

edge  far  superior  to  that  of  Cora  Scott  or  even  to 
that  of  Richard  Lister.  Neither  Dr.  Scott  nor  Dr. 
Lister  talked  to  their  offspring  about  world  politics, 
about  the  literature  of  their  own  country  and  all 
others,  about  the  trees  by  the  wayside  and  the  stars 
in  the  heavens  as  Dr.  Green  talked  to  little  Eleanor 
Bent.  It  was  when  she  repeated  at  home,  as  nearly 
as  she  could  in  his  language,  all  his  wisdom,  that 
Mrs.  Bent  took  to  studying  her  grammar  in  the 
evenings,  after  Eleanor  had  gone  to  bed,  and  hid- 
ing it  under  her  pillow. 

Eleanor  was  deeply  impressed  by  what  she  read 
and  was  also  acutely  conscious  of  the  world  about 
her.  She  had  vivid  impressions  of  each  detail  of  the 
landscape  before  the  door;  of  the  smooth,  concave 
fields  rising  to  the  blue  hills,  which  rose  in  turn  to 
mountains  of  paler  blue;  of  the  winding  stream  with 
its  accompanying  mists;  of  the  journeying  sun  with 
its  single  moment  of  rest  through  all  the  year  in  a 
deep  cradle  in  the  southwestern  ridge;  of  the  dis- 
tant, dim  sound  of  the  train  which  made  its  way 
along  the  next  valley  with  rhythmic  thunder;  of  the 
peace  of  quiet  afternoons  and  evenings;  of  the 
changing  light. 

She  had  not  yet,  though  she  was  graduating  from 
college,  begun  to  observe  or  to  understand  the  sor- 
rows or  sufferings  of  human  beings  or  the  strange 
complexities  and  thwartings  of  human  life.  She 
lived  within  herself  without  speculating  about 
other  people,  even  about  the  life  so  close  to  her,  to 
which  she  was  so  thoroughly  accustomed  that  its 
shrinking,  its  various  and  inconsistent  character- 


22  BASIL  EVERMAN 

istics,  did  not  seem  strange  to  her.  In  her  eighth 
year  she  followed  to  the  cemetery  the  funeral  of  the 
father  of  one  of  her  schoolmates,  and  saw  from  a 
distance  his  widow  throw  herseK  upon  his  coffin. 
She  pictured  thenceforth  her  mother  in  the  same 
situation  and  regarded  her  with  tender  awe. 

In  only  one  respect  did  she  fear  her  mother.  The 
dreadful  "them  there"  was  pruned  out  of  her  own 
speech  by  Dr.  Green's  continued  admonitions  and, 
having  learned  her  lesson,  she  proceeded  to  pass 
it  on. 

"Mother,  you  must  not  say  'them  there.'  Dr. 
Green  says  that  it  is  outlandish  talk." 

Mrs.  Bent  rose  from  her  place  at  one  side  of  the 
little  table.  Her  eyes  looked  no  more  wild  when 
Eleanor  was  brought  home  to  her  bleeding. 

"Don't  you  dare  to  tell  your  mother  how  to 
talk!  That  is  a  dreadful  sin,  a  dreadful,  dreadful 
sin!" 

Eleanor  burst  into  tears ;  her  mother  did  not  stay 
to  comfort  her,  but  went  upstairs  to  her  room  and 
there  remained  until  Eleanor  started  to  school. 
Eleanor  heard  her  talking  to  herself,  heard  her 
pacing  back  and  forth,  and  did  not  dare  to  go  to 
her.  It  was  only  after  many  days  that  their  old 
pleasant  relations  were  restored. 

Eleanor  and  her  mother  went  nowhere  to  pay 
social  visits  and  few  persons  came  into  their  little 
house.  They  were  so  situated  with  reference  to  their 
nearest  neighbors  that  either  the  making  of  a  long 
journey  or  the  scaling  of  a  sharp  picket  fence  was  a 
necessary  preliminary  to  the  borrowing  of  a  lemon 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  23 

or  a  recipe.  The  nearest  neighbor,  who  often  needed 
lemons,  had  suggested  a  gate  through  the  common 
fence,  but  it  had  never  been  cut. 

The  successive  pastors  of  the  college  church  came 
at  proper  intervals  to  call.  There  were  no  aid  so- 
cieties or  "Busy  Bees"  in  the  church  government, 
and  the  young  people  were  not  drawn  into  asso- 
ciation by  oyster  suppers  or  similar  entertainments. 
Nor*  was  Mrs.  Bent  drawn  into  the  company  of 
the  older  women.  Mrs.  Scott,  whose  pew  was  near 
by,  walked  with  her  once  or  twice  a  year  to  the 
corner  and  had  always  some  impertinent  inquiry 
to  make.  Only  a  week  ago  she  had  asked  about 
Eleanor's  future. 

"Nursing,  perhaps,  Mrs.  Bent?  Young  women 
are  taking  up  nursing." 

A  person  with  a  sharper  tongue  than  Mrs.  Bent's 
might  have  asked  whether  Cora  meant  to  take  up 
nursing.  But  Mrs.  Bent  said,  with  her  gentle, 
frightened  air,  "Oh,  I  think  not!" 

"Then,  teaching,  perhaps.?" 

"  She  has  n't  said  anything  yet  about  teaching." 

"Fit  her  for  something,  Mrs.  Bent.  I  suppose  she 
will  have  to  earn  her  living?" 

Mrs.  Bent  smiled  and  passed  on,  not  seeming  to 
realize  that  Mrs.  Scott's  last  sentence  was  a  ques- 
tion. Mrs.  Scott  was  still  talking.  She  said,  in  con- 
clusion, that  she  had  great  difficulty  in  finding 
maids;  that  colored  girls  were  almost  worse  than 
nobody  and  that  white  girls  had  wrong  and  proud 
notions.  If  she  meant  to  imply  that  Eleanor  had 
wrong  or  proud  notions,  Mrs.  Bent  did  not  imder- 


£4  BASIL  EVERMAN 

stand.  If  she  had  ^  ''place"  in  Waltonville  society, 
she  knew,  alas !  where  that  place  was. 

If  Mrs.  Scott  had  suspected  the  ambitions  which 
filled  the  mind  of  pretty  Eleanor,  she  would  have 
run  after  Mrs.  Bent.  Eleanor  had  become  inspired 
with  a  desire  to  write,  an  ambition  put  into  her 
head  by  Dr.  Green,  and  zealously  cultivated  by 
him,  and  she  had  got  into  shape,  without  telling 
any  one  but  her  mother,  several  stories  which  were 
not  without  merit.  One  she  had  ventured  to  send 
away  and  to-day  the  excitement  of  graduation  was 
dulled  by  the  approach  of  a  more  important  event. 
The  editor  of  "Willard's  Magazine"  to  which  she 
had  sent  "Professor  Ellenborough's  Last  Class" 
had  written  to  say  that  a  representative  of  that 
magazine  would  call  upon  her  in  the  course  of  the 
week.  It  was  improbable  that  they  would  send  a 
messenger  from  New  York  to  distant  and  inacces- 
sible Waltonville  unless  her  story  was  really  to  be 
accepted!  Yet  acceptance  was  outside  the  bounds 
of  possibility. 

"  I  should  n't  eat  or  sleep  for  a  week,"  she  declared 
as  the  embroidered  Commencement  dress  went 
over  her  head  and  her  white  shoulders. 

Mrs.  Bent  looked  up  at  her  with  her  most  fright- 
ened expression.  Her  duckling  had  proved  to  be  a 
swan  —  there  was  no  doubt  of  that. 

"Don't  set  yourseK  on  it,"  she  said,  remember- 
ing sundry  very  different  disappointments  of  her 
own.  "Things  often  don't  turn  out  like  we  want 
they  should." 

Mrs.  Bent's  hands  trembled;  she  would  have 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  25 

given  her  life  to  have  things  turn  out  the  way 
Eleanor  wanted  they  should.  Even  now  there  was 
another  happiness  approaching,  of  which  Eleanor 
knew  nothing.  Going  one  day  to  Thomasina's  house, 
Mrs.  Bent  had  asked  Thomasina  to  do  a  service  for 
her  and  Eleanor. 

"  I  don't  like  to  put  you  to  trouble,"  she  explained 
nervously.  "I  want  to  sell  my  piano." 

"Yes.f^"  said  Thomasina.  Was  poor  little  Mrs. 
Bent  in  financial  difficulties.^  It  would  be  a  great 
pity  if  Eleanor  had  to  discontinue  her  lessons.  "That 
is,  not  exactly  to  sell  it,  but  to  change  it." 

"Yes,"  said  Thomasina,  who  never  interrupted 
or  tried  to  complete  the  sentences  of  other  persons. 

"For  a  better  one." 

"Yes."  Thomasina  saw  that  her  guess  was  wrong. 

"But  I  don't  know  much  about  —  about  such 
things."  Mrs.  Bent  had  meant  to  say  about  pianos, 
but  she  suddenly  could  not  remember  whether  the  i 
was  long  or  short.  She  knew  that  one  or  the  other 
was  very  wrong,  but  she  could  not  remember  which 
she  had  used  a  moment  ago. 

"I'll  be  very  glad  to  help  you." 

Mrs.  Bent's  relief  showed  on  her  face  and  she 
breathed  a  long  sigh. 

"What  kind  of  piano  do  you  want,  Mrs.  Bent?" 

"A  large  one,"  answered  Mrs.  Bent,  knowing 
now  certainly  that  she  had  the  wrong  word. 

"A  grand  piano .^" 

"That  is  it,  exactly." 

Thomasina  hazarded  the  name  of  the  best  by 
way  of  elimination. 


26  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"That  is  it,"  slid  Mrs.  Bent.  "If  you  will  pick 
it  out  when  you  go  to  the  city,  the  money  part  will 
be  fixed.  It  is  a  Commencement  present  to  her." 

Mrs.  Bent  rose  to  go.  She  was  invited  to  stay 
longer,  and  she  would  have  liked  to  sit  forever  in 
the  pleasant  room,  but  she  was  afraid.  When  she 
had  gone,  Thomasina  stood  for  a  moment  frowning, 
then  bit  her  lip.  She  wondered  a  good  deal  about 
Mrs.  Bent,  and  she  was  to  wonder  still  more  when 
she  saw  the  large  check  in  the  hand  of  the  salesman 
in  Baltimore  from  whose  stock  she  selected  the 
finest  piano.  Not  only  the  amount,  but  the  signa- 
ture of  the  check  astonished  her. 

The  piano,  now  at  the  railroad  station  upon  its 
side,  its  shining  rosewood  swathed  in  many  folds 
of  flannel  and  canvas  and  rubber,  was  to  be  deliv- 
ered while  Eleanor  was  at  Commencement.  If  she 
had  dreamed  of  its  presence,  her  cheeks  would  have 
been  still  redder,  her  shining  eyes  still  happier.  She 
laid  her  black  gown  over  her  arm  and  took  her 
black  cap  by  its  tassel. 

"Get  your  bonnet,  mother." 

A  glance  at  the  clock  frightened  Mrs.  Bent. 
Eleanor  should  be  off  at  once  or  she  would  meet  the 
men  with  the  piano.  Mrs.  Bent  had  given  explicit 
charges  as  to  the  time  of  its  delivery.  She  was  to  let 
the  carriers,  whose  chief  she  knew  to  be  trust- 
worthy, into  the  house  before  she  started. 

"I'm  not  ready  yet.  You  go  quick,  and  I'll  come 
right  away." 

"You'll  surely  wait  for  me  afterwards?" 

"Oh,  yes."^ 


MOTHER  AND  DAUGHTER  27 

She  followed  Eleanor  to  the  door,  and  watched 
her  pass  the  corner.  The  emotion  which  shone  from 
her  eyes  was  sufficiently  intense  to  explain  even 
a  greater  metamorphosis  than  that  which  had 
changed  Margie  Ginter  into  Mrs.  Bent. 

Almost  at  once  the  piano,  towering  high  above 
the  horses  which  drew  it,  lumbered  in  from  the 
other  direction.  All  had  turned  out  well. 


n 


CHAPTER  m 

A  WALTONVILLE  COMMENCEMENT  AND  AN 
INQUISITIVE  STRANGER 

The  railroad,  a  fifty-mile  spur  of  the  Baltimore  & 
Northern,  ran  to  Waltonville,  but  not  beyond  it. 
Miles  away  across  the  beautiful  valley  which  lay 
spread  before  Mrs.  Bent's  little  house,  the  main 
line  was  dimly  discernible  by  the  long  trail  of  white 
smoke  visible  now  and  then  against  the  blue  hills, 
and,  when  the  wind  blew  from  the  west,  by  the 
faint,  distant  roar  of  flying  trains.  The  oflScials  of 
the  B.  &  N.  had  originally  intended  that  it  should 
pass  through  Waltonville,  and  the  reason  for  their 
change  of  mind  was  an  unusual  one.  The  railroad 
engineer  brought  his  family  to  Waltonville  for  the 
summer,  and  Waltonville  received  them  as  it  did 
all  unintroduced  strangers.  The  engineer  and  his 
wife  and  children  did  not  exist  for  Waltonville. 
Therefore,  the  railroad  swerved  far  away  to  another 
village  which  was  reported  as  larger,  more  impor- 
tant, and  approached  with  less  expense,  and  in  the 
course  of  a  few  years  Waltonville  was  made  the 
terminus  of  a  branch  road  leaving  the  main  line 
at  a  junction  fifty  miles  away. 

Its  loss  was,  however,  not  unmixed  with  gain ;  it 
remained  as  it  was,  unaspiring,  peaceful,  still,  and 
beautiful.  The  students,  the  Commencement  visi- 
tors, the  agents  for  commercial  firms,  the  few  per- 


A  WALTONVILL^  COMMENCEMENT  29 

sons  haled  to  court,  traveled  from  the  east  and 
south  on  the  B.  &  N.  Those  who  came  from  other 
directions  either  made  a  wide  detour  by  rail  or 
approached,  as  they  had  approached  from  time  im- 
memorial, by  horseback  or  carriage. 

The  last  train  on  the  eve  of  Commencement  Day 
had  been  late.  There  was  good  reason  for  delay, 
traffic  being  heavy.  Beside  the  usual  travelers  from 
village  to  village,  there  were  at  least  fifty  fathers 
and  mothers  and  sisters  of  college  boys,  and  there 
were  four  traveling  men  —  in  this  fashion,  at  least, 
the  conductor  classified  his  passengers.  Starting 
was  long  deferred;  first  the  main-line  train  was 
behind  time;  then  the  engine  of  the  Walton ville 
train  moved  slowly,  as  though  it  felt  in  every 
wheel  and  valve  its  heavy  burden.  The  traveling 
men  scolded;  the  staid  fathers  and  mothers  and 
pretty  sisters  sat  quietly,  as  though  this  slow  jour- 
ney were  a  not  unsuitable  preparation  for  the  solem- 
nities of  the  morrow.  The  lateness  of  the  train 
would  be  one  more  interesting  detail  of  a  delightful 
experience.  In  a  few  days  the  doubtful  fame  of  the 
"nine  o'clock"  would  have  spread  far  beyond  Wal- 
tonville. 

There  was  one  passenger  whom  the  conductor 
was  not  able  to  classify,  a  tall  man  who  wore  a 
beard  sharply  pointed  in  a  new  fashion,  young,  but 
how  young  it  was  hard  to  say.  He  was  handsomely 
dressed,  and  his  bags  were  of  a  different  pattern 
from  the  square  leather  cases  of  the  agents  and  the 
unwieldy  and  bulging  satchels  carried  by  other 
travelers. 


so  BASIL  EVERMAN 

He  rode  in  the  feioking-car  and  smoked  steadily. 
Once  or  twice  he  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the 
aisle,  complaining  of  the  roughness  of  his  progress. 
When  a  passenger  took  the  seat  in  front  of  him,  he 
leaned  forward  and  made  comment  as  though  com- 
munion with  a  fellow  being  were  suddenly  impera- 
tive. 

"This  is  a  beastly  road!" 

The  newcomer  turned  toward  him,  blinking,  as 
though  his  mind  had  to  exert  itself  to  understand. 
He  regarded  the  pointed  beard  and  the  handsome 
tie  near  him  with  some  astonishment. 

"What  did  you  say.?" 

"I  said  this  was  a  beastly  road.  I  can  apply  still 
other  adjectives." 

"I  guess  it's  good  enough  for  those  that  have  to 
travel  on  it,"  answered  the  mild  voice.  "I  myself 
don't  travel  much.  The  testimony  of  our  church  is 
rather  against  traveling." 

The  handsome  young  man  sat  back  with  a  mut- 
tered "Humph!"  He  was  not  in  the  least  interested 
in  churches  or  testimonies  or  those  who  thought  of 
them  seriously;  his  mind  was  occupied  with  certain 
literary  problems  which  he  considered  important. 
At  present  he  was  engaged  in  a  quest  which  he 
expected  confidently  would  make  him  famous. 

For  fifteen  minutes  he  stared  out  the  window, 
until  the  darkening  pane  gave  back  only  his  own 
countenance.  Then  he  turned  in  his  seat  and  spoke 
to  the  man  behind  him.  This  man  was  very  friendly; 
he  explained  at  once  that  he  was  going  to  Walton- 
ville  to  see  his  only  son  graduate  and  that  mother 


A  WALTONVILLE  COMMENCEMENT  31 

and  the  girls  were  in  the  other  ear.  The  sending  of 
his  son  to  college  had  been  a  heavy  expense,  but  the 
boy  had  justified  all  his  hopes  and  would  be  able 
to  pay  back  into  the  family  treasury  the  amount 
which  he  had  received. 

"My  name  is  lUington,"  said  he  in  conclusion. 

Instead  of  giving  his  name  in  return,  the  young 
man  asked  a  question. 

"Are  you  acquainted  in  Waltonville?" 

"A  little."  Mr.  Illington  shifted  his  position  so 
that  he  might  talk  more  comfortably.  He  thought 
of  offering  to  sit  with  the  young  man. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  one  named  Basil 
Everman.?" 

The  answer  came  with  a  kindly,  frowning  effort 
to  remember. 

"No  and  yes.  The  name  sounds  familiar." 

"Do  you  know  whether  such  a  person  lives  in 
Walton ville  now?" 

"No,  sir,  I  don't." 

"Did  you  really  ever  know  of  such  a  person?" 

The  kindly  man  shook  his  head.  "I  can't  say 
that  I  really  did.  But  the  name  sounds  — " 

The  young  man  turned  away  as  if  to  say,  "That 
will  do."  He  lifted  to  the  seat  beside  him  the  smaller 
of  his  bags  and  opened  it.  Upon  the  top  of  a  pile  of 
fine,  smoothly  folded  clothes  lay  three  old  maga- 
zines, bound  in  pale  covers  which  were  now  dull 
with  age.  In  each  one  he  opened  to  an  anonymous 
article.  "The  Roses  of  Psestum,"  an  essay,  was  one; 
"Bitter  Bread,"  a  story,  was  another.  The  third 
was  a  long  poem,  "Storm."  He  opened  them,  evi- 


^  BASIL  EVERMAN 

dently  without  aily  intention  of  exhibiting  them 
to  his  neighbor,  but  with  the  purpose  of  furnish- 
ing some  reassurance  to  himself.  Having  looked 
at  them  earnestly  one  after  the  other,  he  returned 
them  to  the  bag,  closed  it,  and  set  it  on  the  floor. 
Once  more  he  appealed  to  the  man  behind  him. 

"You're  sure  you  don't  know  anything  about 
any  Evermans?" 

"I'm  afraid  I  don't,  sir.  But—" 

The  young  man  took  a  little  notebook  from  his 
pocket  and  wrote  in  it  a  few  words  which  his  neigh- 
bor, curiously  peering  over  his  shoulder,  could  see 
plainly.  "  Approach  to  shrine.  A  prophet  in  his  own 
country."  The  inscription  made  the  observer  feel 
a  vague  mortification. 

"You  might  ask  the  conductor,"  he  suggested. 

"Thank  you,"  was  the  solemn  answer.  Then,  in 
slightly  uneven  script,  the  stranger  added  to  his 
notes,  "Ask  the  conductor,"  and  placed  an  excla- 
mation point  after  the  words. 

The  conductor,  approaching  from  the  rear,  was 
halted  and  the  question  put. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  Basil  Everman?'* 

"Never."  The  conductor  also  felt  a  kindly  un- 
willingness to  give  a  negative  answer.  "But  I've 
only  been  on  this  run  fifteen  years,  and  my  home's 
at  the  other  end.  But  you  can  ask  the  brakeman; 
he  lives  in  Waltonville." 

The  young  man's  notebook  was  still  in  his  hand. 
He  wrote  in  it,  "Ask  the  brakeman  about  B.  E.,  the 
incomparable,"  and  followed  it  with  three  excla- 
mation points. 


A  WALTONVILLE  COMMENCEMENT  33 

The  brakeman  answered  that  he,  too,  was  igno- 
rant of  Basil  Everman.  He  perched  on  the  arm  of 
the  inquirer's  seat.  He  said  that  he  Hved  in  Walton- 
ville  because  it  was  cheaper  and  his  wife  liked  to 
keep  chickens.  He  gave  various  other  reasons  why 
his  wife  liked  the  country.  He  preferred  the  city. 

When  the  brakeman  had  gone,  Mr.  lUington 
began  to  prophesy  the  probable  outcome  of  the 
next  presidential  election,  and  the  young  man, 
making  some  incoherent  excuse,  rose  to  go  into  the 
other  car.  But  the  other  car  was  crowded,  and  he 
had  to  come  back,  heavy  bags  in  hand.  When  Mr. 
lUington,  not  in  the  least  offended,  asked  him 
whether  he  was  a  traveling  man,  he  answered  so 
gruffly  that  he  was  left  in  peace. 

In  spite  of  the  fact  that  this  was  the  eve  of  Com- 
mencement and  that  numerous  fathers  and  mothers 
were  to  be  its  guests,  the  Waltonville  Hotel  sent  no 
porters  to  the  station  to  meet  the  train.  It  was 
taken  for  granted  that  those  persons  who  were  able 
to  travel  were  able  also  to  carry  their  hand  luggage. 
Those  who  had  trunks  or  sample  cases  sent  Black 
Jerry  down  from  the  hotel  after  they  had  registered. 

The  young  man  knew  nothing  of  old  Jerry,  so  he 
carried  his  many  changes  of  clothing,  his  silver- 
mounted  toilet  articles,  and  his  books  in  his  own 
hand.  He  stepped  from  the  train  almost  before 
it  stopped,  anxious  to  secure  for  himself  as  good 
accommodations  as  were  to  be  had,  and  asked  of 
the  amused  station  agent  the  location  of  the  best 
hotel.  The  agent  looked  after  his  rapidly  disap- 
pearing figure  and  winked  at  the  baggage-man  as 


84  BASIL  EVERMAN 

if  to  say,  "I  wonder  what  he  will  think  of  it  when 
he  sees  it!" 

When  the  young  man  reached  the  hotel,  having 
stumbled  and  almost  fallen  on  protruding  bricks 
in  the  uneven  pavement,  the  expression  of  weari- 
ness on  his  face  changed  to  one  of  disgust.  The  hotel 
was  small;  its  furnishings  were  poor  and  rickety; 
it  was  not  clean;  and  it  was  saturated  throughout 
with  the  odors  of  stale  beer  and  stale  cooking.  To 
engage  a  room  one  must  enter  the  bar-room  and 
endure  the  scrutiny  of  haK  a  dozen  pairs  of  curious 
eyes  peering  out  of  dull,  bloated  faces.  The  young 
man  set  his  bags  down  heavily  and  asked  for  the 
best  room  in  the  house. 

The  landlord  looked  at  him  with  a  sour  smile. 

"They're  all  pretty  much  alike." 

"Any  with  baths.?" 

"No,  sir." 

"Is  n't  this  a  college  town?" 

"I  believe  they  call  it  that." 

"Humph!"  said  the  stranger.  Then  he  wrote  his 
name,  "Evan  Utterly,  New  York,"  in  a  square 
hand  in  the  untidy,  blotted  register  and  the  land- 
lord gave  him  a  key  to  Number  Five. 

"First  room  at  the  head  of  the  stairs.  You  can 
find  it.  Name's  on  the  door." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Mr.  Utterly.  He  intended  to 
convey  stern  reproof  by  his  tone  so  that  the  land- 
lord should  burn  with  mortification.  But  his  tone 
was  not  reproving,  it  was  exclamatory.  His  eyes 
had  lifted  to  a  picture  hung  above  the  dingy  mirror 
behind  the  bar.  It  was  a  poor  old  English  print. 


A  WALTONVTLLE  COMMENCEMENT  35 

representing  the  arrival  of  the  stage  at  an  inn  door. 
From  the  stage  window  leaned  the  head  of  a  young 
girl,  who  looked  with  a  frightened  expression  at 
the  coarse  face  of  the  landlord,  while  a  little  dog 
barked  furiously  at  the  horses.  The  poor  picture 
seemed  to  have  some  powerful  fascination  for  the 
stranger.  His  tone  became  eager. 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  one  named  Basil 
Everman?"  he  asked. 

"Never." 

"How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Ten  years." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  any  one  by  the  name  of 
Everman?" 

The  landlord  turned  to  wait  upon  the  first  of  the 
advancing  fathers. 

"Never,"  said  he. 

Into  the  face  of  one  of  the  loafers  came  a  startled 
look.  This  was  the  lawyer.  Bates,  who  had  dulled 
a  fine  mind  by  dissipation  and  of  whom  little 
Eleanor  Bent  lived  in  terror.  The  mention  of 
Basil  Everman  seemed  to  amaze  him.  His  brow 
was  for  an  instant  furrowed  as  though  he  tried  to 
concentrate  all  his  powers  of  mind  upon  some  long- 
past  circumstance,  but  he  was  not  able,  at  this  hour 
of  the  day,  to  concentrate  upon  anything,  and 
presently  the  fumes  of  liquor  and  tobacco  and  the 
warm  summer  air  sent  him  back  into  the  state  of 
somnolence  from  which  he  had  been  roused. 

Utterly  found  a  hard,  uneven  bed  in  an  unaired 
room  and  spent  a  wretchedly  uncomfortable  night 
filled  with  foolish  dreams  of  impossible  quests.  So 


86  BASIL  EVERMAN 

depressed  was  he  with  the  last  search,  which  seemed 
to  extend  over  years  and  years  and  lead  nowhere, 
that  his  first  act  upon  waking  was  to  reach  out  and 
take  in  his  hand  the  thin  old  magazines  which  lay 
in  his  bag  on  a  chair  near  by  and  open  to  "Bitter 
Bread/' 

"It  was  late  afternoon  when  she  reached  her  des- 
tination," he  read.  "There,  instead  of  the  eager 
face  of  Arnold,  she  saw  looking  from  the  inn  door 
the  cruel  face  of  Corbin;  there,  instead  of  Arnold's 
welcoming  voice,  she  heard  the  sharp  bark  of 
Corbin's  unfriendly  dog." 

Having  read  the  two  sentences,  which  seemed  to 
restore  his  confidence.  Utterly  rose,  dressed  himself 
in  white  flannel,  and  went  down  to  the  dining-room. 

Breakfast  was,  as  was  to  be  expected,  poor.  But 
among  the  mildly  excited  persons  with  whom  the 
room  was  filled,  Utterly  was  at  first  the  only  one 
who  complained.  Mothers  and  fathers  were  nerv- 
ous with  fear  that  John  and  Harry  might  not  do 
well;  sisters  watched,  bright-eyed,  for  brothers  and 
the  friends  of  brothers.  Mr.  lUington  stopped  at 
Utterly's  end  of  one  of  the  long,  untidy  tables  to 
bid  him  good-morning.  He  called  him  now  by  his 
name,  having  consulted  the  hotel  register,  and 
offered  in  friendly  fashion  to  introduce  him  to  "the 
girls." 

There  was.  Utterly  said  to  himself,  but  one  per- 
son with  a  mind  in  the  room.  The  person  whom  he 
thus  distinguished  was  Dr.  Green,  who  came  late 
and  brought  with  him  the  strong  odor  of  drugs 
which  betrayed  his  profession.  He  moved  his  chair 


A  WALTONVnXE  COMMENCEMENT  37 

as  though  he  would  have  Hked  to  reHeve  a  black 
mood  by  tossing  it  above  his  head,  and  perhaps  by 
slamming  it  down  upon  the  floor.  His  quick  motions 
and  his  bright  eyes  indicated  an  abundance  of 
physical  and  mental  energy,  neither  of  which  had, 
perhaps,  full  exercise.  Having  waited  long  for  a 
late-appearing  housekeeper,  he  had  at  last  sped 
down  the  street  to  the  hotel.  Now  he  ordered  break- 
fast sharply  and  impatiently. 

Old  Jerry,  waiter  as  well  as  man-of-all-work, 
obeyed  him  spryly  with  many  a  chuckled  "Yes, 
doctor;  yes,  mars'r,"  which  indicated  that  the  doc- 
tor was  a  less  formidable  person  than  he  seemed. 

"That  good-for-nothin'  Jinnie  ought  to  go  to 
Geo'gia  trade,  mars'r,  that 's  where  she  ought  to  be 
sent  a-flyin'.  Didn't  get  you  no  breakfus!  Yes, 
mars'r,  these  is  meant  for  cakes."  Old  Jerry  looked 
toward  the  kitchen.  "That  one  out  there's  like 
Jinnie,  mars'r.  The  wimmen,  they  is  all  alike,  seems 
to  me." 

The  doctor  looked  as  though  he  agreed  with 
Jerry's  humorous  disgust  with  the  sex.  Utterly, 
watching  him,  grew  more  certain  that  here  at  last 
was  promise  of  intelligence.  He  might  have  been 
less  sure  of  the  doctor's  intelligence  could  he  have 
seen  the  complete  turn  of  head  and  body  which 
followed  his  own  exit. 

"These,"  said  Dr.  Green,  "go  clad  as  the  angels." 

Jerry  bent  to  pick  up  the  doctor's  napkin,  and 
once  bent  to  the  floor,  found  it  difficult  to  rise,  so 
convulsed  was  he. 

"Yes,  mars'r,  that  am  so." 


38  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Stopping  at  the, bar  on  his  way  from  the  dining- 
room,  Utterly  asked  the  hotel-keeper  the  name  of 
the  teacher  of  English  at  the  college.  The  hotel- 
keeper  regarded  his  white  apparel  with  unconcealed 
astonishment,  and  shook  his  head. 

*' Can't  tell  you.  Don't  believe  you  can  do  any 
business  out  there  this  morning.  They're  having 
their  graduating  exercises.  Is  your  line  books?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Utterly.  "That's  my  line." 

His  disgust  with  the  ignorance  of  those  whom  he 
had  encountered  and  his  recollection  of  his  uncom- 
fortable night  faded  as  he  walked,  an  hour  later, 
out  toward  the  campus.  Here  was  Waltonville, 
after  all,  as  he  imagined  it,  and  in  order  that  such 
a  Waltonville  might  be  preserved,  it  was  endurable 
that  some  discomforts  should  be  preserved  also. 

Here  was  a  broad  street,  sloping  up  to  the  college 
gates;  here  were  tall  trees  and  broad  lawns,  and 
everywhere  masses  of  roses  and  honeysuckle  which 
one  had  a  right  to  expect  in  this  latitude  and  longi- 
tude in  June.  He  looked  with  admiration  at  the 
graceful  curve  of  the  black  railing  which  protected 
those  who  went  up  the  steps  to  Dr.  Green's  oflSce, 
and  stopped  stock-still  when  he  came  to  Thoma- 
sina's  gateway  and  saw  her  straight  flagged  walk 
and  her  flowers,  and  said,  "By  Jove!"  when  he 
heard  the  music  of  the  bees  in  the  blossoming  honey 
locust.  The  campus  was  surrounded  by  a  brick  wall 
with  high,  thick,  brick  posts,  all  covered  with  ivy 
which  was  now  sending  out  clean,  bright  little 
shoots.  The  old  buildings  were  covered  so  that  they 
seemed  to  be  constructed  of  green  vines. 


A  WALTONVnXE  COMMENCEMENT  39 

In  the  distance  the  academic  procession  was  ap- 
proaching, the  gowned  and  hooded  shepherds  of 
the  flock  leading,  the  boys  and  girls,  similarly 
gowned,  following  sedately  after.  From  the  chapel 
toward  which  they  advanced  came  the  sound  of 
music,  a  festival  march  well  played  on  a  sweet- 
toned  old  organ.  A  bit  of  poetry  came  to  Utterly's 
mind: 

"Who  are  these  coming  to  the  sacrifice?  ... 
What  httle  town  by  river  or  sea  shore. 
Or  mountain-built  with  peaceful  citadel. 
Is  emptied  of  its  folk  this  pious  morn?" 

"How  delightfully  Attic!"  he  said  to  himself, 
not  without  satisfaction  in  the  knowledge  which 
made  this  comment  possible. 

The  various  members  of  the  procession  were  not 
so  set  upon  the  significance  of  their  orderly  march 
that  they  did  not  notice  the  stranger  as  he  stood 
watching  them.  All  the  professors  saw  him  and 
envied  him  a  little  his  youth  and  his  elegance,  and 
were  at  the  same  time  a  little  amused.  Eleanor 
Bent  saw  him  and  flushed,  then  grew  very  white. 
Here,  perhaps,  was  the  stranger  who  was  to  call 
upon  her!  Her  heart  was  wax,  as  yet  unwritten 
upon,  but  this  day  plastic  and  ready  for  a  lover's 
signature.  She  was,  at  the  thought  that  Utterly 
might  be  the  coming  messenger  of  "Willard's 
Magazine,"  at  once  excited  and  alarmed.  She  was 
so  ignorant  —  what  should  she  say  to  so  imposing 
and  elegant  a  person? 

Seeing  that  the  body  of  the  chapel  was  filled, 
Utterly  climbed  one  of  the  two  broad  staircases 


40  BASIL  EVERMAN 

which  led  to  the  r^ar  gallery,  and  from  there  looked 
down  upon  the  bonnets  of  the  ladies  and  upon  the 
flower-decked  platform  on  which  faculty  and  grad- 
uates were  now  taking  their  places.  There  were  two 
other  occupants  of  the  gallery  —  at  the  organ  a 
handsome  boy,  who  was  evidently  a  senior,  since 
his  black  gown  lay  on  the  bench  beside  him,  and 
the  same  tall  gentleman  redolent  of  drugs  who  had 
breakfasted  at  the  hotel. 

The  boy  was  playing  vigorously.  His  touch  was 
clear  and  true,  and  Utterly,  who  possessed,  along 
with  many  other  serviceable  and  unserviceable  bits 
of  knowledge,  an  acquaintance  with  organ  music, 
listened  with  surprise  to  his  spirited  and  accurate 
work.  His  eyes  then  passed  from  one  member  of 
the  faculty  to  another,  resting  longest  upon  Presi- 
dent Lister,  short,  dark-skinned,  and  Jewish  in 
appearance,  and  upon  a  tall,  slender,  smooth- 
shaven  man  whom  he  guessed  to  be  the  Professor 
of  English.  In  these  two,  he  decided,  after  contem- 
plating them  and  their  colleagues,  was  concentrated 
the  intellectual  strength  of  Walton  College. 

When  the  processional  was  finished,  the  player 
slid  off  the  organ  bench,  slipped  into  his  gown, 
straightened  his  shoulders,  whispered  a  "Hello!" 
at  the  doctor,  and  left  the  gallery.  A  much  smaller 
boy  emerged,  red-faced,  from  the  interior  of  the 
organ,  and  to  him  Utterly  signaled  a  demand  for  a 
programme. 

During  the  long  prayer,  he  read  the  list  of  gradu- 
ates. The  first  name  upon  which  his  eye  fell,  that 
of  Eleanor  Bent,  startled  him  so  that  he  almost 


A  WALTONVILLE  COMMENCEMENT  41 

exclaimed  aloud,  and  for  a  few  moments  he  con- 
tinued to  stare  at  it  as  though  he  were  not  quite 
certain  that  he  read  aright.  But  the  name  was  un- 
mistakable, as  well  as  the  young  woman's  part  on 
the  programme  —  "Eleanor  Bent,  Valedictory." 
Utterly  slid  along  the  bench  toward  the  doctor, 
who  was  much  surprised  to  find  him  close  by  when 
he  lifted  his  head  after  the  prayer.  There  was  a 
strange,  excited  look  in  the  doctor's  eyes.  At  the 
programme  which  Utterly  held  out  to  him  he  glared 
almost  savagely.  He  did  not  like  Utterly 's  looks;  he 
was  an  effeminate  dandy. 

Utterly  had  drawn  a  heavy  line  under  Eleanor 
Bent's  name,  and  he  pointed  to  it  now  with  his 
pencil. 

"Is  that  a  young  lady.?"  he  whispered  rather 
stupidly. 

The  doctor  looked  at  him  with  unfriendly  aston- 
ishment. 

"Naturally!" 

"I  mean  —  is  there  another  person  of  that  name 
in  the  town?  —  an  aunt,  perhaps,  or  — " 

"No,"  said  Dr.  Green,  "there  is  n't." 

"And  here!"  Mr.  Utterly's  pencil  moved  to 
another  point.  "  '  Richard  Everman  Lister.'  Do  you 
know  anything  of  him?" 

The  doctor  jerked  his  head  toward  the  organ. 
"That  was  he." 

"Did  you  ever  hear  of  a  Basil  Everman?" 

It  was  impossible  to  tell  whether  this  jerk  of 
head  signified  impatience  or  negation.  Utterly 
pointed  again  to  Richard's  name.  He  did  not  ob- 


m  BASIL  EVERMAN 

serve  or  choose  to  observe  that  the  doctor  objected 
to  this  whispered  questioning. 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  his  relatives?" 

"I  know  them  all." 

"And  there  is  no  Basil  Everman?" 

The  doctor  turned  his  shoulder  now  with  an  un- 
mistakable intention  to  say  no  more.  As  Utterly 
slid  back  to  his  place,  he  saw  an  old  catalogue  in 
another  pew  and  leaned  forward  to  secure  it.  Among 
the  former  presidents  of  the  college  was  Richard 
Everman,  who  was  also  Professor  of  Greek.  Basil 
—  who  but  a  Professor  of  Greek  would  give  his 
son  such  a  name.?  Mr.  Utterly  glared  at  Dr.  Green. 
Was  this  foolish  doctor  trying  to  conceal  some- 
thing from  him,  something  which  he  had  every 
right  to  know.f^  He  had  a  moment's  silly  suspicion 
that  the  conductor  and  the  hotel-keeper  and  the 
brakeman  and  the  doctor  might  have  conspired 
against  him. 

Putting  the  old  catalogue  into  his  pocket,  he 
gave  his  attention  to  the  speaker,  that  same  bright- 
eyed,  blond  Richard  who  was  beginning  his  '' Audi- 
tores  ^  Comites,  Professores,''  in  a  clear  voice  and 
with  a  smiling  face.  Utterly  smiled  back,  partly  in 
response  and  partly  at  the  old-fashioned  English 
pronunciation,  antiquated  even  to  him,  though  he 
was  years  older  than  these  children. 

Between  Richard  Lister  and  Eleanor  Bent  came 
ten  speakers,  each  addressing  a  tense  and  motion- 
less audience,  sympathetic  with  aspiring  youth, 
sympathetic  in  turn  with  each  attentive  parent  and 
sister,  and  breathing  audible  sighs  with  each  con- 


A  WALTONVILLE  COMMENCEMENT  43 

eluding  bow.  Of  all  the  boys  only  Richard  was  com- 
posed. The  only  girl  in  the  class  beside  Eleanor, 
Cora  Scott,  made  no  impression  upon  Utterly 
except  that  she  was  a  frail  little  thing,  what  color 
and  prettiness  she  might  have  overshadowed, 
blotted  out  by  the  black  gown  in  which  she  was 
swathed.  Of  them  all,  no  one  failed,  but  there  were 
slight  hesitations  and  cheeks  red  with  embarrass- 
ment. The  topics  which  they  discussed  might  well 
have  excited  older  heads  than  theirs.  Especially 
were  the  theories  of  Mr.  Darwin,  penetrating  after 
many  years  to  Walton  College,  now  torn,  shredded, 
cast  to  the  winds. 

But  Eleanor  Bent  —  here  was  no  blotting-out, 
but  rather  a  heightening  of  vivid  beauty.  Utterly, 
who  did  not  have  an  enthusiastic  temperament, 
said  to  himself  that  he  had  never  seen  a  more 
charming  girl.  She  walked  well  in  her  approach  to 
the  center  of  the  platform,  she  bowed  gracefully, 
she  had,  he  decided,  the  most  wonderful  gray  eyes 
he  had  ever  seen,  and  the  most  musical,  low  voice. 
She  was  in  a  sense  his  discovery  also,  and  this  eve- 
ning he  would  talk  to  her  and  learn  just  how  re- 
markable she  was. 

Her  address  was  merely  an  elaborate  farewell, 
flowery,  perhaps,  but  appropriately  and  becomingly 
flowery,  matching  well  the  roses  and  the  honey- 
suckle and  the  Southern  inflections  of  her  sweet 
young  voice. 

While  the  degrees  were  being  conferred.  Utterly 
consulted  again  the  catalogue  in  his  pocket.  The 
name  of  the  teacher  of  English  was  Scott,  Henry 


44  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Harrington  Scott;  he  was  certainly  the  smooth- 
faced gentleman.  He  lived  probably  in  one  of  the 
pleasant  houses  on  the  campus  with  their  domestic 
resemblance  to  the  classic  architecture  of  the  large 
buildings. 

He  looked  with  interest  at  Richard  Everman  Lis- 
ter when  he  returned  to  his  place  on  the  organ 
bench  for  the  recessional.  Richard's  countenance 
was  frank  and  open;  there  had  descended  to  him, 
if  he  were  at  all  related  to  this  mysterious  Basil, 
no  outward  trace,  at  least,  of  the  interesting  quali- 
ties of  mind  and  soul  which  distinguished  the  author 
of  "Bitter  Bread"  and  "Roses  of  Psestumc" 


CHAPTER  IV 

MR.  UTTERLY  MAKES  THE  ACQUAINTANCE  OF 
MRS.  SCOTT 

When  Utterly  started  from  the  hotel  to  call  upon 
the  Professor  of  EngHsh,  the  three  members  of  the 
Scott  family  were  still  at  the  dinner  table.  Mrs. 
Scott  occupied  the  chief  seat,  a  small,  birdlike  crea- 
ture with  quick  motions  and  a  sharp  tongue  which 
helped  to  shape  staccato  notes  as  varied  as  those  of 
a  catbird.  She  condemned  now  in  rapid  succession 
the  decorations  of  the  chapel.  President  Lister's 
address,  and  Eleanor  Bent's  color,  which  she  be- 
lieved was  not  altogether  natural. 

Little  Cora,  who  sat  to  her  mother's  left,  was,  to 
most  persons  acquainted  with  the  family,  a  negli- 
gible quantity.  She  had  gone  through  college  be- 
cause college  was  at  hand,  and  she  would  now  as- 
sume, it  was  to  be  expected,  like  the  other  girls  in 
Waltonville,  an  attitude  of  waiting,  which  was  to 
her  mother  not  without  its  precise  object. 

"Richard  Lister  never  looked  at  any  one  else," 
she  often  insisted  to  her  husband. 

"Richard  is  very  young,"  Dr.  Scott  would  re- 
mind her  in  his  nervous  way.  He  stammered  when 
he  addressed  his  wife,  who  seldom  allowed  him  to 
finish  his  long,  beautiful  sentences.  Sometimes  she 
helped  him  with  a  word,  sometimes  she  finished  the 
sentence  herself,  radically  altering  his  meaning,  and 
proceeding  precipitately  to  some  lighter  theme. 


46  BASIL  EVERMAN 

He  sat  opposite  liis  wife  and  awaited  impatiently 
the  moment  of  release.  About  twenty-five  years 
after  he  was  married,  he  had  made  for  himself 
a  refuge  in  a  room  adjoining  his  classroom.  Here 
a  single  wide  window  opened  upon  a  part  of  the 
prospect  which  Mrs.  Bent  and  her  daughter  en- 
joyed daily;  here  was  a  fireplace  and  here  ample 
space  for  shelves.  He  transported  himself  thither 
with  desk,  pamphlets,  old  books,  and  all  other  mov- 
able possessions  except  his  clothes,  to  spend  that 
part  of  his  time  which  was  not  devoted  to  eating 
or  sleeping  or  teaching.  There  Mrs.  Scott  did  not 
seek  him  out,  having  everything  in  her  own  hands, 
and  needing  no  advice  upon  any  subject  domestic 
or  foreign. 

He  had  an  intense  desire  for  a  little  fame,  both 
because  he  did  not  wish  to  be  wholly  forgotten,  and 
because  he  longed  for  association  with  those  who 
were  working  in  the  same  field.  He  wrote  short 
articles  for  the  "Era"  and  longer  articles  for  the 
"Continent,"  and  occasionally  he  received  letters 
in  comment  from  scholars.  He  read  widely,  and  his 
mind,  quickened  by  some  modern  instance,  offered 
at  once  a  parallel  from  literature  or  history.  An 
eruption  of  ^tna  reminded  him  of  magnificent  and 
almost  forgotten  lines  of  Cowper;  a  summer  evening 
recalled  stanza  upon  stanza;  in  spring  he  thought 
in  verse. 

Occasionally  he  received  for  his  compositions  a 
small  honorarium.  The  first  he  had  passed  with 
fatal  gallantry  to  Mrs.  Scott.  When  she  spent  it  for 
an  atrocious  "Head  of  an  Arab"  in  Arabian  colors. 


MR.  UTTERLY  AND  MRS.  SCOTT  47 

he  determined  to  use  the  next  for  books.  But  she 
expected  a  continuation  of  these  perquisites  and 
was  quick  to  suspect  their  arrival.  Instead  of  adding 
new  volumes  of  Pater  or  old  editions  of  the  poetry 
of  Robert  Herrick  to  his  library,  he  added  new  pieces 
of  statuary  and  other  objects  of  doubtful  value  to 
his  wife's  collection.  When  the  precious  slips  of 
paper  passed  from  his  hand,  he  was  tempted  to 
wonder  why  he  had  married.  But  loyalty  was  a 
religion  with  him  and  he  would  be  loyal  even  in 
thought. 

The  vacant  place  opposite  Cora  belonged  to  her 
brother  Walter,  or,  as  he  preferred  to  sign  himself, 
W.  Simpson  Scott,  a  product  peculiarly  his  mother's, 
moulded  by  her  hand,  holding  her  convictions. 
Earnestly  advised  in  his  boyhood  that  without  a 
large  income  one  could  do  and  be  nothing  in  the 
world,  he  had  accepted  a  position  with  an  uncle,  a 
manufacturer  in  New  York,  and  had  risen  until  he 
was  now  his  uncle's  chief  assistant  at  a  salary  well 
known  in  Waltonville.  He  proved  himseK  to  be 
equal  to  all  those  commercial  emergencies  in  which 
a  little  sharp  dealing  goes  farther  than  a  good  deal 
of  hard  work.  He  came  home  about  twice  a  year, 
bringing  with  him  the  most  recent  of  slang,  the 
most  fashionable  of  wardrobes,  the  latest  musical- 
comedy  songs,  and  the  most  contemptuous  opinion 
of  Waltonville. 

To  the  Scott  household  the  closing  of  the  college 
for  the  summer  brought  little  change.  The  time  that 
Dr.  Scott  had  spent  in  the  classroom  he  would 
spend  now  in  his  study;  the  time  that  Cora  had 


48  BASIL  EVERMAN 

spent  with  her  books  she  would  spend  embroider- 
ing. Mrs.  Scott's  Hfe  would  know  at  first  no  change, 
but  in  August  she  would  take  Cora  to  Atlantic 
City  to  meet  Walter,  and  Dr.  Scott  would  spend 
a  month  in  heavenly  quiet  and  with  an  entirely 
negligible  indigestion. 

When  Evan  Utterly  reached  the  porch  steps, 
Mrs.  Scott  stood  still  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway 
which  she  was  about  to  ascend  and  looked  and  lis- 
tened, regretting  the  chance  which  had  taken  her 
husband  to  the  porch  before  her.  Somehow  Utterly 
in  his  beautiful  white  clothes  had  escaped  her 
attention  at  the  morning  exercises,  or  she  would 
have  had  up  to  this  time  an  uncomfortable  period 
of  speculation. 

Vaguely  provoked  because  she  was  not  sum- 
moned at  once,  she  stood  still,  her  eyes  roving  from 
the  parlor,  with  its  gilt  chairs  and  its  pale  uphol- 
stery, to  the  sitting-room,  with  its  table  spread 
with  Cora's  presents.  There  could  be  no  better  time 
to  entertain  a  stranger! 

She  heard  Utterly  comment  upon  the  Attic 
beauty  of  the  campus;  then  his  voice  sank.  He  was 
still  talking  about  Waltonville's  charm,  but  she 
suspected  a  confidential  communication.  She  deter- 
mined to  wait  until  she  heard  more.  There  was  only 
one  situation  in  life  in  which  she  was  truly  patient 
and  in  such  a  situation  she  now  waited  and  listened. 
When  a  single  clear  statement  reached  her  alert 
ears,  she  moved  nearer  to  the  door.  The  stranger 
had  said  that  he  was  a  member  of  the  staff  of 
"Willard's  Magazine"!  She  had  a  passion  for  liter- 


MR.  UTTERLY  AND  MRS.  SCOTT  49 

ature,  she  believed,  and  here  was  doubtless  a  very 
celebrated  literary  man  at  her  door!  She  laid  her 
hand  lightly  upon  the  latch,  thereby  producing  a 
little  sound  which  the  stranger  could  not  hear,  but 
which  Dr.  Scott  could  not  mistake.  Surely  he  would 
rise  at  once  and  invite  her  to  join  them ! 

But  her  husband  gave  no  sign  of  summoning  her. 
Patience  became  impatience.  She  could  hear  in  his 
voice  the  tone  which  he  assumed  when  he  was  bored 
or  when  he  was  talking  with  persons  whom  he  did 
not  like.  She  could  still  hear  only  unintelligible 
fragments  of  the  conversation.  She  clicked  the 
latch  again. 

Dr.  Scott  did  not  like  the  stranger,  either  for 
himself  or  his  clothes  or  his  speech.  It  was  a  period 
when  Anglomania  affected  the  rising  generation 
and  this  youth  used  English  pronunciations  as  he 
might  have  used  a  monocle,  with  evident  and  pain- 
ful effort.  In  what  he  had  to  say  Dr.  Scott  was  not 
the  least  interested.  He  had  begun  to  open  the  mail 
which  lay  on  the  chair  beside  him  and  he  wished 
desperately  that  the  young  man  would  state  his 
errand  and  go. 

When  Utterly  asked  finally  for  Basil  Everman, 
Dr.  Scott  was  not  able  to  help  him  in  his  search. 
He  said  that  he  had  lived  in  Waltonville  for  only 
about  fifteen  years  and  that  he  did  not  remember 
that  he  had  ever  heard  of  Basil.  Richard  Everman 
had  been  president  of  the  college  and  he  had  had 
one  child,  a  daughter  who  was  now  Mrs.  Lister. 
From  her  the  family  history  could  doubtless  be 
learned.  It  might  be  that  Basil  was  her  uncle.  Dr. 


50  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Scott  stirred  unfeasily,  as  he  was  wont  to  do  when 
he  was  anxious  to  be  left  in  peace. 

Mrs.  Scott  had  moved  to  the  side  of  the  doorway 
from  which  she  could  see  the  stranger.  He  seemed 
to  her  each  moment  more  distinguished  in  appear- 
ance. She  was  certain  that  he  hailed  from  that  dis- 
tant Boston  which  she  adored  without  having  seen. 
When  she  saw  him  reach  for  his  hat  and  stick, 
which  he  had  laid  on  the  porch  floor  beside  him,  she 
lifted  the  latch  and  walked  out.  She  was  just  in 
the  nick  of  time.  Neither  the  conductor  nor  the 
brakeman  nor  even  the  hotel-keeper  was  as  offen- 
sive to  Utterly  as  this  man  who  professed  to  teach 
English  literature.  He  did  not  exhibit  his  maga- 
zines or  explain  why  he  sought  Basil  Everman. 

For  once,  Dr.  Scott  did  as  he  was  expected  and 
desired  to  do.  Rising,  he  presented  the  stranger  to 
Mrs.  Scott  with  a  cordiality  which  only  hope  of  his 
own  escape  could  have  inspired.  Now,  at  least,  he 
need  not  talk.  Perhaps  he  could  even  leave  the 
stranger  entirely  in  her  hands.  This  was,  he  ex- 
plained with  a  Chesterfieldian  bow,  Mr.  Utterly, 
who  was  making  inquiry  about  some  one  named 
Basil  Everman. 

Mrs.  Scott  seated  herself  with  a  finality  of  man- 
ner which  made  it  necessary  for  Utterly  to  be 
seated  also. 

"Oh,  yes?"  said  she  eagerly  and  inquiringly. 

" Do  you  know  anything  of  him.^  "  asked  Utterly. 

"Why,  yes.  He  was  a  brother  of  Mrs.  Lister.  He 
died—" 

"Died!"  repeated  Utterly. 


MR.  UTTERLY  AND  MRS.  SCOTT  51 

**0h,  yes,  before  we  came  to  Waltonville.  I  be- 
lieve he  lived  away  from  home.  He  died  of  some 
contagious  disease  and  he  was  n't  buried  here,  I 
know  that.  I  think  he  was  a  bit  wild,''  Mrs.  Scott 
looked  at  the  stranger  with  some  deep  meaning. 

Dr.  Scott  flushed  during  this  rush  of  words.  It 
was  strange  that  she  should  know  so  much  about 
Basil  Everman  and  he  so  little,  but  whether  he  had 
never  heard  his  name,  or  whether  he  had  known 
and  had  forgotten  were  questions  of  too  little  im- 
portance to  solve  or  to  explain. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  *wild'?"  asked  Utterly 
with  blunt  curiosity. 

"Oh,  he  —  he  did  n't  do  things  as  other  people 
did  them,"  answered  Mrs.  Scott  vaguely. 

"You  never  saw  him?" 

"No." 

"Nor  heard  anything  of  him  but  that?" 

"No."  Mrs.  Scott  made  the  acknowledgment 
with  reluctance. 

When  Utterly  said  that  her  not  knowing  more 
wais  very  singular,  her  curiosity  became  almost  a 
physical  distress. 

"Was  there  anything  remarkable  about  him?" 
she  asked. 

"  Rather ! "  Utterly  now  took  hat  and  stick  firmly 
in  his  hand.  "Where  do  the  Listers  live?" 

Mrs.  Scott  ignored  the  question.  It  annoyed  her 
to  think  of  this  brilliant  stranger  in  the  hands  of 
Mrs.  Lister  even  though  his  business  was  with  her. 

"If  you  are  interested  in  hearing  about  Basil 
Everman"  —  the  name  slipped  from  her  lips  as 


52  BASIL  EVERMAN 

though  it  had  lofeg  waited  just  behind  them  —  "y^^ 
might  Uke  to  meet  some  Waltonville  people  here 
to-morrow  evening.  They  could  tell  you  a  great 
deal." 

Utterly  accepted  the  invitation  with  alacrity. 
If  he  were  still  in  Waltonville,  he  should  like  noth- 
ing better. 

"There  is  another  citizen  of  Waltonville  whom  I 
should  like  to  meet,"  said  he. 

Mrs.  Scott's  mind  traveled  rapidly  down  the  list 
of  professors.  She  almost  purred  in  her  satisfaction. 

''I  shall  be  glad  to  ask  any  one.  That  person 
is—" 

When  Utterly  answered  "Miss  Eleanor  Bent," 
Mrs.  Scott  looked  astonished  and  disapproving. 
Utterly  read  her  countenance  with  amusement.  It 
was  evident  that  Miss  Bent  did  not  move  in  Mrs. 
Scott's  circle.  The  worse  for  Mrs.  Scott!  He  ex- 
plained that  he  was  to  call  on  Miss  Bent  that  eve- 
ning by  appointment.  She  was,  thank  fortune !  here 
and  alive  and  easy  to  find.  Then,  with  a  polite  good- 
afternoon,  he  descended  the  steps  and  started 
toward  the  Listers'  white  house. 

Dr.  Scott  and  his  wife  spoke  simultaneously. 

"What  on  earth  does  he  want.^^"  demanded  Mrs. 
Scott  of  Dr.  Scott  and  of  the  universe. 

"The  man  is  a  stranger!  Why  did  you  invite  him 
here  like  that.?" 

"We  are  told  to  entertain  strangers,"  replied 
Mrs.  Scott  flippantly.  "What  does  he  want  here? 
What  does  he  want  with  Eleanor  Bent?  What  is 
this  about  Mrs.  Lister's  brother?" 


MR.  UTTERLY  AND  MRS.  SCOTT  53 

"I  don't  know.  I  didn't  ask.  It's  none  of  my 
aflFair." 

"Perhaps  she  has  applied  somewhere  for  a  posi- 
tion. What— " 

Dr.  Scott  gathered  up  his  papers  and  books. 
He  dropped  the  "Fortnightly  Review"  and  almost 
groaned  to  see  that  magazine  and  cover  had  parted 
company.  Then  he  bestowed  upon  his  wife  one  of 
the  glances  of  incredulous  astonishment  which  he 
had  cast  upon  her  during  all  but  a  very  brief  period 
of  their  married  life,  and  fled.  That  a  party  involved 
the  making  of  ice-cream  and  that  he  would  be  re- 
quired to  furnish  the  motive  power  for  its  manu- 
facture in  the  middle  of  to-morrow's  hot  afternoon 
was  not  the  least  disturbing  of  the  reflections  which 
this  unfortunate  incident  introduced  into  his  mind. 


/ 


CHAPTER  V 

MR.  UTTERLY  CONTINUES  HIS  SEARCH 

Hat  and  cane  in  hand  and  carrying  under  his  arm 
the  three  old  magazines  which  he  contemplated 
from  time  to  time  so  earnestly,  Utterly  ascended 
the  steps  of  the  Lister  porch.  There,  in  mid-after- 
noon, Dr.  Lister  sat  alone,  the  dinner  guests  having 
departed  to  join  the  general  exodus  on  the  five- 
o'clock  train.  Mrs.  Lister  had  gone  upstairs  to 
change  her  black  dress  for  one  of  lighter  weight,  and 
now  sat  quietly  and  happily  beside  her  window. 
Such  periods  of  unhappiness  as  she  had  lived 
through  that  morning  were  followed  by  spaces  of 
calm  when  a  crust  seemed  to  form  over  the  grief 
which  could  still  burn  so  fiercely.  The  house  was 
very  still;  the  only  movement  indoors  was  that  of 
the  thin  curtains  swaying  gently  in  the  summer  air. 

Hearing  a  strange  voice  on  the  porch,  she  made 
haste  to  complete  her  change  of  apparel.  She  was 
as  punctilious  in  the  small  relations  of  life  as  she 
was  in  its  more  important  principles.  Perhaps  the 
visitor  did  not  wish  to  see  her;  if  he  lingered  she 
would  go  quietly  down  into  the  hall  and  find  out. 

Dr.  Lister  had  seen  Utterly  and  had  wondered 
who  he  was.  Now,  saying  to  himself  that  Walton- 
ville  was  seldom  glorified  by  so  well-clad  a  figure, 
he  rose  to  meet  his  guest.  Dr.  Lister  loved  Greek 
and  taught  his  boys  and  girls  faithfully,  but  with- 


MR.  UTTERLY  CONTINUES  HIS  SEARCH      55 

out  much  enthusiasm  for  their  capabiHties  or  pos- 
sibihties.  His  mind  was  more  intently  occupied 
with  the  affairs  of  the  great  world  which  seemed  to 
jie  so  far  away,  with  prospective  changes  in  the 
English  cabinet,  with  ominous  stirrings  in  the  East. 
It  seemed  to  him  at  the  first  glance  that  his  guest 
belonged  to  that  interesting  outer  world. 

"This  is  Dr.  Lister?"  Utterly  saw  the  eager  eyes. 
Here  was  a  man!  "I  am  Mr.  Utterly  of  'Willard's 
Magazine.'  Can  you  spare  me  a  few  moments  of 
your  time.^" 

Dr.  Lister  motioned  the  stranger  to  one  of  the 
comfortable  chairs.  He  had  been  thinking  of  a  few 
minutes'  sleep  before  supper,  but  he  gave  it  up 
willingly  and  even  eagerly  in  the  prospect  of  a  talk 
with  this  keen  stranger. 

"My  vacation  began  at  noon,  sir.  I  shall  be  glad 
to  give  you  all  the  time  you  wish." 

Utterly  sat  with  the  magazines  in  his  hand.  This 
Waltonville,  he  said,  was  charming. 

"A  New  Yorker  would  find  it  rather  dull,"  an- 
swered Dr.  Lister. 

"There  would  be  compensation  here  for  anything 
New  York  could  offer,"  said  Utterly,  without  mean- 
ing it  in  the  least.  "This  peaceful  Attic  flavor"  — 
with  a  gesture  toward  the  green  trees  and  the 
smooth  lawn  and  Dr.  Lister's  canna  beds  — "makes 
one  feel  that  after  all  some  persons  and  some  places 
do  arrive  at  serenity.  We  never  do  in  New  York. 
We  don't  know  what  serenity  is."  Then  Utterly 
descended  from  the  pedestal  upon  which  Dr.  Lister 
had  for  the  moment  established  him.  He  added 


56  BASIL  EVERMAN 

a  "don't  you  Ijnow"  to  his  sentence.  "We  don't 
know  what  serenity  is,  don't  you  know."  The 
phrase  was  still  not  common  property  in  America, 
but  it  offended  Dr.  Lister's  ear. 

"I  listened  with  great  pleasure  to  your  boys  and 
girls,  especially  to  the  playing  of  your  own  boy  —  I 
believe  it  was  your  son  who  played  the  organ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Lister. 

"I  stood  at  the  campus  gate  and  watched  your 
peaceful  procession  with  envy  and  I  might  say  with 
awe.  I  felt  that  it  was  n't  real.  I  seemed  to  have 
stepped  back  just  about  two  thousand  years.  You 
ought  to  keep  it  forever  as  a  spectacle.  Pilgrimages 
ought  to  be  made  here,  not  by  train,  but  on  foot. 
Everything  in  the  world  is  changing  —  you  have 
something  that  is  old.  I  could  n't  help  thinking  of 
*Thou  still  unravish'd  bride  of  quietness,'  and  so 
forth,  don't  you  know?" 

Dr.  Lister  shifted  his  knees  so  that  the  one  which 
had  been  uppermost  was  now  beneath  the  other. 
Who  was  this  strange,  bearded,  sentimental  youth, 
robed  like  the  lilies,  who  quoted  poetry  at  first 
acquaintance?  Dr.  Lister  read  poetry,  but  he  did 
not  quote  it  to  men  whom  he  did  not  know.  He 
wished  that  the  young  man,  still  running  eloquently 
on  about  the  Attic  scene,  would  state  his  errand  and 
go.  He  thought  longingly  of  his  couch  in  the  cool 
study. 

Then,  in  the  still  afternoon,  thus  far  so  like  any 
other  Commencement  afternoon,  he  was  startled 
out  of  all  sleepiness. 

"It  is  diflBcult  to  understand  how  Basil  Everman 


MR.  UTTERLY  CONTINUES  HIS  SEARCH      57 

with  such  an  environment  could  have  looked  so 
keenly  and  seeingly  at  the  grimmer  side  of  life." 

Dr.  Lister  turned  his  head. 

"I  did  n't  understand  you." 

"I  said  that  it  is  difficult  to  understand  how 
Basil  Everman,  with  such  an  environment  as  this 
in  his  youth,  could  have  presented  so  completely  a 
side  of  life  so  grim  and  terrible." 

''Basil  Everman!'*  repeated  Dr.  Lister.  Still  he 
could  not  believe  that  he  had  heard  aright.  He  had 
been  sleepy  and  he  had  misunderstood. 

"Why,  yes!  It  surely  is  not  possible  that  Dr. 
Lister  does  not  know  Basil  Everman!" 

"Basil  Everman  was  my  wife's  brother.  He  has 
been  dead  for  twenty  years!" 

"You  did  not  know  him  as  a  writer?"  Utterly's 
eyes  arraigned  Dr.  Lister  for  stupidity  or  some 
worse  fault. 

"No.  What  do  you  mean?"  Dr.  Lister  lowered 
his  voice.  His  impressions  of  Basil  Everman,  whom 
he  had  not  known,  were  not  extensive,  but  they 
were  very  positive.  He  had  been  a  strange  youth 
who  had  brought  sorrow,  and  sorrow  only,  to  those 
who  loved  him,  talented  without  question,  but  lack- 
ing in  balance  of  mind.  He  had  often  felt  for  him 
a  stern  disapproval,  coupled  with  a  half-defined 
jealousy  because  of  the  devotion  of  his  sister  to  a 
memory  which  was  best  put  away. 

"I  am  a  member  of  the  staff  of  'Willard's  Mag- 
azine,'" explained  Utterly.  "Some  weeks  ago  I 
looked  carefully  over  the  old  files  with  a  view  to 
making  a  comparison  of  the  shorter  fiction  of  to- 


58  BASIL  EVERMAN 

day  with  that  which  was  being  written  twenty-five 
years  or  more  ago.  Ours  to-day  is  vastly  superior." 
Suddenly  Utterly's  words  came  in  a  flood.  He  grew 
ardent  and  excited.  "We  are  beginning  to  learn 
from  the  French  and  Russians.  We  are  learning  the 
beauty  of  the  lowly,  even  of  the  degraded.  We  are 
learning  to  look  at  life  with  our  eyes  and  not  with 
our  puritanic  moral  sense.  I  have  no  words  with 
which  to  express  my  contempt  for  that  dull,  blind, 
wickedly  perverted  thing  called  Puritanism." 

Dr.  Lister  now  sat  motionless,  his  knees  a  limp 
parallel.  His  perfect  quiet,  the  intentness  of  his 
gaze,  the  complete  stillness  of  all  about  them,  sug- 
gested to  Utterly  a  breathless  moment  in  a  play. 
He  felt  that  he  was  talking  well,  that  he  had  never 
talked  better  in  his  life. 

"  But  here,  twenty  years  ago,  was  an  exception, 
a  glorious,  shining  exception.  I  found  a  story  called 
*  Bitter  Bread,'  an  essay  called  'Roses  of  Psestum,' 
and  a  poem  called  'Storm.'  Every  one  who  has 
read  them  considers  them  extraordinary.  They  ex- 
hibit not  only  marvelous  imaginative  power,  but 
an  extensive  experience  of  life,  the  experience  of  a 
man  who  has  seen  many  things  and  felt  all  things. 
I  am  not  one  of  those  who  hold  that  genius  finds 
both  its  source  and  its  material  in  itself,  furnishing 
at  once  its  own  fuel  and  its  own  fire." 

Utterly  paused  for  breath.  Here  was  a  well- 
expressed  sentiment  of  which  he  must  make  mental 
and  afterwards  written  note. 

"But  — "  began  Dr.  Lister. 

Utterly  lifted  his  hand. 


MR.  UTTERLY  CONTINUES  HIS  SEARCH      59 

"We  found  after  a  good  deal  of  searching  that 
one  of  the  original  manuscripts  had  been  preserved. 
It  was  mailed  from  Waltonville,  Pennsylvania, 
though  the  answer  was  to  be  sent  to  Baltimore. 
I  had  another  errand  here,  and  I  was  anxious  to 
discover  what  I  could  about  this  contributor  of 
twenty-five  years  ago,  who  promised  such  extra- 
ordinary things  and  who  then,  as  far  as  we  know, 
ceased  to  write.  I  belong  to  that  class  of  biographers 
who  believe  that  all  is  sacred  and  valuable  in  the 
development  of  genius.  The  facts  of  a  writer's  life 
are  of  transcendent  importance.  The  power  of 
imagination  fails  after  a  certain  point,  rather  it 
does  not  begin  until  a  certain  degree  of  experience 
has  been  reached.  A  writer  must  have  lived.  I  am 
hungry  to  know  all  you  can  tell  me  of  Basil  Ever- 
man.  I  mean  to  write  about  him  at  length."  Utterly 
settled  himself  a  little  more  comfortably  in  his  chair. 
"You  say  that  he  is  dead.^^  How  unfortunate!" 

"Yes,"  said  Dr.  Lister  slowly.  "He  has  been  dead 
for  twenty  years." 

"Did  he  die  here?" 

"No.  He  died  away  from  home  in  an  epidemic. 
It  was  not  possible  to  bring  his  body  home.  His 
death  seriously  affected  my  wife,  who  is  his  sister, 
and  who  lost  her  father  about  the  same  time.  I 
never  saw  Basil  Everman  either  in  life  or  death." 

"And  you  never  knew  or  suspected  that  he 
wrote?" 

"I  never  heard  that  he  was  supposed  to  have 
talent  of  any  sort.  He  was  very  young." 

"So  was  Keats  when  he  wrote  'St.  Agnes  Eve.' 


60  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Surely  Basil  E^erman's  sister  knew  about  his 
talent!" 

"I  do  not  believe  she  ever  knew  that  he  had  pub- 
lished any  writings." 

"May  I  see  her?" 

"I  — I  will  see." 

Dr.  Lister  rose,  bewildered,  and  went  slowly 
toward  the  door.  Surely  Mary  Alcestis  could  have 
known  nothing  of  this!  The  idea  that  she  might 
have  mental  reservations  was  new.  He  was  certain 
that  she  would  be  shocked  by  this  inquiry  and  he 
wished  that  there  were  time  to  prepare  her  for  it. 
He  could,  if  she  wished,  ask  the  stranger  to  come 
at  another  time,  or  he  could  excuse  her  entirely. 

He  found  her  in  the  hall.  He  had  a  fleeting  im- 
pression that  she  had  been  for  some  time  where  she 
stood  now,  by  the  stairway  with  her  hand  on  the 
newel  post.  But  she  came  forward  at  once,  her 
smooth  and  slightly  pale  face  showing  only  its 
usual  expression  of  placid  content. 

"  Did  you  have  a  rest,  mother.? "  asked  Dr.  Lister. 

"Yes,"  she  answered  in  her  steady  voice.  "All 
that  I  needed." 

"There  is  a  literary  man  here  who  comes  from 
a  New  York  magazine  who  wishes  to  speak  to 

you." 

"To  me?"  repeated  Mrs.  Lister.  It  was  not  a 
question,  real  or  rhetorical,  it  was  simply  a  mechan- 
ical repetition  of  her  husband's  words. 

"Yes.  He  wishes,  strangely  enough,  mother,  to 
ask  you  about  some  literary  work  of  your  brother 
Basil's," 


ME.  UTTERLY  CONTINUES  HIS  SEAECH      61 

"Of  Basil's."  Mrs.  Lister  did  not  seem  so  much 
surprised  as  benumbed.  Dr.  Lister  was  now  certain 
that  she  had  heard  the  stranger,  and  had  tried, 
and  was  still  trying,  to  gather  herself  together. 

"  He  says  that  your  brother  sent  to  his  magazine 
many  years  ago  some  remarkable  compositions 
which  they  published  anonymously.  Did  you  know 
of  them?" 

"He  used  to  write  some,"  said  Mrs.  Lister  in  a 
childish  way.  "He  played  some,  too,  on  the  piano. 
No,  I  did  n't  know  that  anything  was  published." 

"Will  you  come  out  and  speak  to  this  gentle- 
man? Do  you  feel  able  to  speak  to  him?" 

Mrs.  Lister  walked  toward  the  door  without 
answering.  She  rested  her  hand  for  an  instant  on 
the  door  frame  and  felt  for  the  step  with  percepti- 
ble confusion.  If  the  sunshine  looked  suddenly  dark, 
and  the  honeysuckle  seemed  to  exhale  a  sickly  odor, 
it  was  not  the  first  time  in  her  life  that  under  like 
circumstances  she  had  held  her  head  bravely.  She 
had  heard  every  word  the  stranger  had  said.  If  she 
had  put  on  spectacles  of  some  strange,  distorting 
medium,  he  could  not  have  looked  more  monstrous, 
more  frightful  to  her.  She  gave  him  a  cold  hand 
because  his  own  hand  reached  for  it,  and  then  sat 
down. 

Utterly  repeated  his  account  of  the  finding  of 
Basil  Everman's  stories  and  his  estimate  of  his 
genius.  He  expressed  in  even  more  realistic  phrase 
his  admiration  for  the  insight  of  the  younger  gen- 
eration of  writers.  He  said  that  modern  literature 
was  finding  material  in  thieves,  drunkards,  in  what 


62  BASIL  EVERMAN 

had  hitherto  be^  considered  bottomless  pits.  Even 
Keats  had  said  that  truth  was  beauty. 

He  recounted  with  witty  embroidery  how  he  had 
asked  the  brakeman  and  the  conductor  and  the 
person  whom  he  called  "mine  host"  about  Basil 
Everman  and  how  none  of  them  could  tell  him 
anything. 

"  But  the  little  tavern  gave  the  whole  thing  away. 
The  heroine  of  'Bitter  Bread'  takes  refuge  in  just 
such  a  place;  there  is  the  identical  worn  doorstep 
and  the  fly-blown  bottles  and  the  print  over  the 
bar  which  pictures  exactly  her  own  arrival.  There, 
at  least,  Basil  Everman  must  have  been  long  enough 
to  have  a  photographic  impression  printed  on  his 
sensitive  brain." 

Dr.  Lister's  hands,  lying  upon  the  arms  of  his 
chair,  straightened  themselves  as  though,  using 
them  as  a  fulcrum,  he  meant  to  rise  with  a  mighty 
spring.  The  tavern  was  not  a  place  for  Mary 
Alcestis's  brother  to  be  connected  with!  But  he 
looked  at  Mrs.  Lister  and  sat  still.  Her  face  was  a 
little  whiter,  but  it  was  unruffled.  Now  that  he  had 
been  so  unwise  as  to  let  her  see  this  creature,  the 
interview  had  better  be  conducted  as  she  chose. 

"Then  I  went  to  the  house  of  the  Professor  of 
English  and  he  knew  nothing.  If  it  had  n't  been  for 
the  tavern,  I  should  have  despaired  entirely.  Will 
you"  —  Utterly,  looking  at  Mrs.  Lister  decided 
that  so  Victorian  a  person  could  not  possibly  under- 
stand or  appreciate  her  brother.  "  Will  you  tell  me 
about  Basil  Everman?  Will  you  not  tell  me  every- 
thmg?" 


ME.  UTTERLY  CONTINUES  HIS  SEARCH      63 

Mrs.  Lister  began  in  a  smooth  voice  as  though 
she  were  reciting  a  well-conned  lesson.  Not  a  quiver 
betrayed  her  spinning  world. 

"Basil  was  born  here  in  this  house.  My  father 
was  president  of  the  college  before  Dr.  Lister.  Basil 
was  his  only  son  and  I  his  only  daughter.  He  had 
no  other  children.  Basil  was  only  twenty-five  years 
old  when  he  died.  He  died  of  diphtheria."  Mrs. 
Lister  had  evidently  concluded.  "In  Baltimore," 
she  added  as  though  that  put  a  period  to  her  sen- 
tence. 

"Yes?"  said  Utterly. 

Mary  Alcestis  smiled  a  meaningless  little  smile 
and  said  nothing. 

"That  is  n't  all,  Mrs.  Lister!"  cried  Utterly. 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  but  Mrs.  Lister!"  Utterly  was  delighted  to 
see  that  suddenly  her  eyes  burned  and  her  hands 
twitched.  "What  was  he  like?  Do  you  remember 
him  distinctly?  What  did  he  look  like?" 

^^  Remember  him  I''  said  Mrs.  Lister's  heart.  ''Re- 
member Basil ! "  Aloud  she  said  steadily  and  clearly, 
"He  was  quite  tall  and  slender.  He  had  black  hair, 
curly  hair.  His  eyes  were  large  and  bright." 

"You  have  photographs  of  him,  of  course?" 

Dr.  Lister  rose  at  Mrs.  Lister's  command  to 
fetch  the  album  from  the  parlor  table.  He  recalled 
more  and  more  distinctly  those  long  hours  when 
she  had  lain  sleepless  at  his  side  suffering  her  ab- 
normal and  unwholesome  grief  for  her  brother.  He 
moved  his  chair  closer  to  hers  as  he  handed  the 
stranger  Basil's  picture. 


64  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"  What  extraordihary  eyes ! "  said  Utterly.  "They 
look  like  another  pair  of  eyes  I've  seen  recently." 
He  frowned,  but  could  not  remember  what  eyes. 
"That  is,  their  shape  is  the  same.  What  color  were 
they.P" 

"Basil  had  gray  eyes." 

"You  surely  must  have  known  that  he  was  won- 
derful!" 

"He  was  bright,"  conceded  Mrs.  Lister. 

"Was  he  a  graduate  of  this  college?" 

"No." 

"He  must  have  traveled  a  great  deal.  He  could 
not  have  written  'Roses  of  Paestum'  without  hav- 
ing been  at  Psestum,  and  one  does  not  get  to  Paes- 
tum  without  going  through  some  other  places.  I 
think  your  father  was  extraordinarily  wise  to  let 
him  get  his  education  in  that  way.  Did  he  live 
abroad  .f^" 

"He  was  never  abroad." 

"  He  never  saw  Psestum ! " 

"No." 

Utterly  looked  at  Mrs.  Lister  as  though  he  did 
not  believe  her.  Again  Dr.  Lister's  hands  flattened 
on  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"  Extraordinary !  And  he  lived  here  in  this  house ! " 
Utterly  looked  up  at  the  walls  as  though  he  expected 
them  to  bear  a  memorial  plate  or  some  other  record. 
"Was  he"  —  He  turned  impatiently  to  Dr.  Lister 
—  "Are  there  no  interesting  facts  about  him,  no 
memorabilia,  no  traditions  of  any  kind.^^  If  he  has 
been  dead  only  twenty  years,  he  should  still  be 
alive  in  the  minds  of  men  and  women,  especially  of 


MR.  UTTERLY  CONTINUES  HIS  SEARCH      65 

women.  A  man  like  that  could  n't  simply  grow  up 
and  die,  like  a  vegetable!  We  used  to  think  the 
Brontes  had  only  lived  and  grown  up  and  died,  but 
we  are  learning  differently.  It  was  silly  ever  to  have 
thought  otherwise.  Moreover,  the  reading  public  is 
determined  to  have  the  facts  about  those  whom  it 
admires.  You  cannot  keep  people  from  knowing," 
concluded  Utterly  in  a  harsh  tone,  some  basic  rude- 
ness in  his  nature  showing  suddenly  through  the 
outer  veneer.  He  was  certain  that  they  were  with- 
holding something  from  him,  certain  that  Mrs. 
Lister  knew  a  great  deal  more  than  she  would  tell. 
To  him  Basil  Everman  grew  each  moment  more  un- 
usual, more  mysterious,  the  position  of  the  scholar 
who  should  discover  him  more  to  be  desired.  If  he 
could  see  Dr.  Lister  alone,  he  might  be  able  to  learn 
more.  He  rose  and  asked  whether  he  might  leave 
the  magazines  until  the  next  day. 

"I  suppose  you  will  wish  to  read  them?" 

"  Certainly,"  answered  Dr.  Lister,  rising  also. 

"Basil  Everman  stands  only  second  to  Edgar 
Allan  Poe  among  the  litterateurs  of  the  United 
States;  of  that  even  this  small  amount  of  work 
gives  ample  proof.  It  is  the  most  deplorable  tragedy 
in  the  history  of  American  literature  that  the 
amount  should  be  so  small.  Are  you  sure  there  is 
nothing  else?" 

"Other  magazines  of  the  period  might  have 
something,  might  they  not?"  suggested  Dr.  Lister. 
"Have  you  thought  of  looking  there?  If  the  style 
is  so  individual,  you  should  be  able  to  recognize  the 
work  of  the  author  elsewhere." 


66  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"Even  if  I  did,*I  could  n't  ask  questions.  Don't 
you  see  that  I  don't  want  any  one  else  to  find  out 
now?  Any  calling  of  the  attention  of  another  maga- 
zine to  Basil  Everman  would  bring  a  representa- 
tive here  at  once.  There  is  no  reason  why  I  should  n't 
have  the  facts  as  well  as  any  one  else." 

Mrs.  Lister  rose  heavily.  The  interview  had  been 
prolonged  a  moment  too  long  and  her  composure 
was  gone.  What  she  said  startled  her  husband  more 
than  anything  that  had  preceded. 

"Do  you  know  all  the  facts  about  Homer,  or 
about  Shakespeare,  or  other  writers  .f^  I  know  that 
you  don't  know  anything  about  Shakespeare  be- 
cause there  are  some  people  who  think  that  Bacon 
wrote  his  works.  Why  should  you  know.^^" 

"We  should  never  cease  to  give  thanks  if  we 
could  find  out,  dear  lady,"  answered  Utterly.  "I'll 
give  you  a  hundred  dollars  a  word  for  any  authentic 
information  about  Shakespeare,  and  a  thousand  for 
any  about  Homer.  Homer  and  Shakespeare  have 
been  dead  for  centuries  and  men  are  still  trying  to 
find  out  about  them.  And  will  keep  on  trying,''  he 
added. 

When  Utterly  was  well  out  of  sight.  Dr.  Lister 
took  his  wife's  hand. 

"  Why,  my  dear !  What  is  it  ?  " 

Mrs.  Lister  turned  upon  him  a  gray  face.  She 
looked  old,  terrified,  distraught. 

"That  is  a  wolfish  man,"  said  she.  "Make  them 
leave  poor  Basil  in  his  grave!  I  will  tell  nothing 
about  Basil.  I  have  nothing  to  tell  about  him." 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  NEW  PIANO 

Richard  Lister  had  been  a  placid,  comfortable 
baby,  though  his  birth  had  followed  a  period  of 
deep  anguish  in  his  mother's  life.  To  her  he  was  a 
miracle,  an  incredible  phenomenon,  his  dependence 
upon  her  for  every  need  of  his  little  being  the  most 
heavenly  experience  she  had  ever  had.  He  slept  a 
proper  and  wholesome  number  of  hours  and  re- 
mained awake  long  enough  for  ample  petting,  and 
for  the  first  twelve  years  of  his  life  he  was  scarcely 
out  of  her  sight.  She  tended  him  awake  and  watched 
him  while  he  slept,  enduring  with  considerable  pain 
the  sight  of  him  in  the  arms  of  any  one  except  his 
father  or  Thomasina  Davis  or  'Manda. 

When  he  was  five  years  old,  she  entered  upon  a 
period  of  anxiety  whose  beginning  she  had  set  for 
this  time.  She  compelled  herself  to  realize  that  she 
could  not  have  him  always;  that  the  small  imita- 
tions of  mannish  clothes  which  he  wore  would  be 
presently  exchanged  for  full-grown  originals  which 
he  would  put  on  and  off  without  her  aid.  He  would 
have,  moreover,  some  day  a  wife  who  would  super- 
sede his  mother  in  the  delectable  kingdom  of  his 
heart. 

She  began  also  to  anticipate  the  moment  when 
she  must  begin  to  discipline  him,  and  to  dread  the 
various  forms  of  infant  crime  for  which  she  searched 
her  mind.    Presently  he  would    cease    to    obey 


68  BASIL  EVERMAN 

promptly;  he  wottld  refuse  to  put  his  toys  away 
neatly  on  the  low  shelf  of  the  cupboard  assigned  to 
him;  he  would  stamp  and  scream  like  other  naughty 
little  boys.  He  might,  alas,  take  pennies  from  her 
pocketbook.  Then  there  would  be  the  fondness 
for  tobacco  and  playing-cards  on  whose  account 
he  would  have  to  be  struggled  with  and  possibly 
whipped.  She  had  never  been  whipped,  and  she 
had  good  reason  to  doubt  the  ejBScacy  of  whipping, 
but  she  would  not  allow  her  own  observation  to 
contradict  Biblical  injunction.  No  one  but  herself, 
however,  should  lay  hand  or  switch  upon  Richard, 
hideous  as  such  necessity  would  be  to  her. 

But  Richard  needed  no  whipping  and  his  mother 
could  decide  upon  no  moment  when  the  discipline, 
to  which  she  had  given  so  many  hours  of  anxious 
thought,  should  begin.  He  continued,  up  to  and 
long  past  the  age  of  five,  to  be  the  most  biddable 
little  child  that  ever  lived,  satisfied  with  what  he 
had,  requiring  no  other  companionship  than  that 
of  his  father  and  mother  and  'Manda,  playing  a 
great  deal  by  himself,  and  never  screaming  or 
stamping  or  taking  pennies  from  pocketbooks.  He 
liked,  as  he  grew  older,  to  have  little  Cora  Scott 
come  to  play  with  him,  but  to  the  Scotts  he  would 
not  go  without  his  mother,  having  a  wholly  justifi- 
able fear  of  Walter. 

He  was  allowed  each  pleasant  morning  in  summer 
to  cross  the  broad,  grassy  field  back  of  the  campus 
to  a  little  stream,  tin  bait-can,  fishing-rod,  and 
package  of  lunch  in  hand,  and  a  great  old  straw  hat 
of  his  father's  on  his  head.  As  he  sat  and  fished. 


A  NEW  PIANO  69 

'Manda  could  watch  him  from  the  kitchen  window 
and  his  mother  could  gloat  over  him  from  a  window 
above.  Even  Dr.  Lister  left  his  work  once  an  hour 
to  see  how  he  fared.  If  it  were  a  baking  morning 
'Manda  would  go  down  with  a  fresh  patty-cake  or 
a  handful  of  cookies. 

Luck  was  always  poor  with  Richard,  probably 
because  he  sang  constantly  while  he  fished.  His 
repertoire  was  composed  of  hymns  and  songs  of  a 
rather  solemn  cast.  He  was  particularly  fond  of  the 
lengthy  liturgical  service  of  the  church,  and  prayed 
the  Lord  a  hundred  times  in  a  morning  to  have 
mercy  upon  him.  The  fervor  with  which  he  ex- 
pressed this  plea  frightened  his  mother,  who  feared 
that  such  intense  emotion  indicated  a  spirit  not 
long  for  this  world. 

Sometimes  in  the  evenings  he  and  'Manda  held 
a  concert  at  the  kitchen  door,  'Manda  in  her  rocking- 
chair  on  the  porch,  Richard  on  the  lowest  step, 
hands  on  knees,  eyes  gazing  upon  the  meadow  with 
its  shadowy  trees  and  its  myriad  fireflies  or  looking 
up  at  the  stars.  'Manda  was  loath  to  leave  upon 
such  occasions  and  sat  long  after  the  hour  when  she 
was  usually  in  the  colored  settlement. 

Richard  was  the  soloist  and  always  selected  and 
began  the  hymns.  Frequently  the  two  took  liberties 
with  the  original  form.  Richard  made  a  long  pause 
after  each  line  of  "I  was  a  wandering  sheep,"  and 
'Manda's  rich  contralto  inserted  an  eerie,  tender, 
indescribably  deep  and  rich  "po'  lamb!"  The  re- 
frain varied  constantly  and  the  variety  indicated  a 
keen  instinct  for  harmony. 


70  BASIL  EVERMAN 

When  he  changed  to  "Swing  Low,  Sweet  Char- 
iot," or  "Hallelu,"  or  "These  Bones  Shall  Rise 
Again,"  'Manda  ceased  to  rock,  and  bending  for- 
ward, hands  on  knees,  joined  in  at  the  beginning, 
her  rich  voice  furnishing  a  background  for  the 
child's  soprano  with  its  piercing  sweetness.  In  her 
performance  was  all  the  savagery  of  deepest  Africa 
and  besides  all  spiritual  meanings  and  desires. 
Thomasina  Davis,  sitting  often  with  Dr.  and  Mrs. 
Lister  on  the  porch  on  the  other  side  of  the  house, 
commanded  every  one  to  stop  and  listen. 

"It  makes  clear  the  universal  kinship  of  believ- 
ers," said  she  with  shining  eyes.  "There  are  a  hun- 
dred thrilling  suggestions  in  that  duet  of  blue-eyed 
Anglo-Saxon  and  black-haired  African." 

Dr.  Lister  smiled  back  at  Thomasina.  Mrs.  Lister 
did  not  understand  exactly  what  she  meant,  but 
she  smiled  also  and  obeyed  willingly  the  command 
for  silence.  No  sound  in  the  world  was  so  sweet  to 
her  as  Richard's  voice. 

Little  Richard  liked  also  to  preach.  The  audience 
which  he  usually  selected  was,  like  that  of  St. 
Anthony,  one  of  fishes.  In  imagination  he  saw  be- 
fore him,  from  his  pulpit  on  the  bank,  a  decorous 
congregation  and  a  tuneful  choir.  His  performance, 
while  it  shocked  his  mother,  yet  gave  her  hope  that 
he  might  incline  toward  the  ministry.  Her  father, 
for  whom  he  was  named,  had  had  theological  train- 
ing and  used  to  preach  in  the  college  church.  It 
seemed  to  her  often  that  she  could  see  in  Richard's 
solemn  gestures  a  resemblance  to  those  of  the  grave 
old  man. 


A  NEW  PIANO  71 

Richard's  discourses  suggested  no  such  proba- 
bihty  to  his  father,  eavesdropping  from  behind  a 
convenient  tree.  They  were  pleasant  to  Dr.  Lister, 
who  sometimes  feared  that  a  boy  who  was  never 
uproarious,  who  always  remembered  to  wipe  his 
shoes  on  the  mat,  and  who  never  carried  toads  or 
mice  in  his  pockets,  might  be  too  amiable  and  good. 
He  wished  for  a  little  temper,  a  little  disobedience, 
a  little  steel  under  the  satin.  When  Richard  cried 
out,  "Oh,  you  darned  fishes!"  in  imitation  of  the 
ice  man  whom  Mrs.  Lister  could  neither  silence  nor 
reform,  his  father  was  convulsed. 

When  Richard  grew  older  and  ceased  to  sing,  his 
mother,  while  she  missed  his  hymns,  was  content. 
Thus  had  Basil  sung  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  At 
Thomasina's  suggestion,  Richard  had  begun  early 
to  take  music  lessons  from  her.  Except  that  he  had 
often  to  be  summoned  from  the  old  piano  to  other 
duties,  and  that  he  often  called  to  his  mother  to 
listen  to  little  melodies  which  he  invented  or  to 
certain  resolutions  of  chords  which  pleased  him, 
and  which  were  to  her  ear  like  any  other  musical 
sounds,  he  gave  no  disturbing  sign  of  special  interest 
in  music.  Sometimes  he  repeated  stories  of  musi- 
cians which  Thomasina  told  him,  about  Beethoven 
who  was  an  accomplished  player  at  the  age  of  nine, 
and  who  had  become  deaf  when  he  had  scarcely 
left  his  youth,  and  about  Handel  who  had  become 
blind.  Richard's  face  would  glow  and  his  eyes  shine 
with  tears. 

"Could  you  imagine,  mother,  how  he  felt  when 
he  knew  that  he  could  never  hear  again?  He  never 


n  BASIL  EVERMAN 

heard  his  greatest  works.  Think  of  it,  mother,  what 
a  fearful  thing  that  would  be!" 

Mrs.  Lister  could  not  imagine  it  and  would  not 
think  of  it,  having  but  slight  conception  of  the 
pleasures  which  harmonious  sound  can  give  to  the 
ear  of  the  musician.  Thus  had  Basil  called  upon  her 
for  sympathy  in  his  strange,  incomprehensible  sat- 
isfactions. She  wished  that  Thomasina  would  not 
tell  Richard  such  stories. 

Richard  was  always  busy.  He  kept  a  series  of 
little  notebooks,  neatly  indexed;  he  cut  clippings 
from  newspapers  and  filed  them  away;  he  divided 
his  day  into  periods  for  each  sort  of  study,  for  exer- 
cise, and  for  play. 

Soon  after  he  entered  college,  his  voice  returned, 
a  clear,  serviceable  tenor.  He  led  the  Glee  Club 
which  then  took  no  long  journeys  round  the  coun- 
try, but  sang  for  its  own  amusement  and  that  of 
the  college,  and  he  played  the  chapel  organ  and  the 
assembly  room  piano.  He  continued  to  practice  at 
home,  but  his  practice  was  chiefly  that  of  dull  exer- 
cises and  unending  scales  which  roused  no  alarm  in 
his  mother's  breast,  and  which  his  father  regarded 
fearfully  as  the  indication  of  a  rather  feeble  intel- 
lect seeking  exercise  which  involved  no  mental  or 
physical  effort.  Richard  called  out  no  more  with 
tears,  "Oh,  mother,  did  you  know  that  Handel  was 
blind?"  cried  out  no  more,  "Oh,  mother,  listen!" 
in  ecstasy  over  some  sound  which  he  had  produced, 
no  more,  "That  is  to  be  played  delicatessimente, 
mother.  Isn't  that  a  beautiful  word.^"  Richard's 
musical  passion,  at  least  so  it  seemed  to  his  mother, 


A  NEW  PIANO  73 

had  died  a  natural  death.  She  could  not  quite  under- 
stand why  he  sought  the  society  of  Cora  Scott  so 
seldom  and  that  of  Thomasina  for  several  hours 
daily  —  but  that  was  a  choice  to  be  thankful  for 
at  his  age. 

In  the  fall  he  would  have  to  begin  in  ear- 
nest to  prepare  for  whatever  profession  he  was  to 
follow.  So  far  there  had  been  no  family  discussion 
of  this  matter.  Mrs.  Lister  had  not  quite  given  up 
her  hopes  that  he  might  become  a  preacher.  Of  the 
other  professions  open  to  him,  medicine,  law,  and 
teaching,  she  hoped  that  he  would  choose  teaching. 
Then  they  could  all  stay  here,  forever. 

As  a  matter  of  fact  —  alas,  for  poor  Mrs.  Lister! 
—  Richard's  plans  were  made,  and  of  them  in  their 
entirety  one  person  knew  beside  himself.  Under 

Richard's  satin  there  was  steel.  His  life-work  had 

-■» 

been  selected  and  he  meant  to  begin  to-morrow. 
His  Commencement  money  would  buy  him  a 
clavier  and  to  it  he  intended  to  devote  the  summer. 
He  could  have  it  in  his  own  room  where  it  would 
disturb  no  one  and  where  he  could  look  upon  it 
when  he  woke  and  practice  upon  it  when  he  was 
supposed  to  be  in  bed.  He  knew  that  his  mother 
was  not  fond  of  music,  but  his  mother  would  let  him 
have  his  way,  had  always  let  him  have  his  way.  He 
did  not  realize  that  thus  far  his  way  had  been  hers. 
In  the  fall  he  would  go  to  study  with  Faversham  in 
New  York,  and  therefore  it  was  probable  that  he 
would  be  at  home  no  more.  Thus  lightly  does  youth 
arrange  for  itself.  If  poor  Mary  Alcestis  could  have 
looked  into  Richard's  mind  as  he  sat  beside  her  at 


74  BASIL  EVERMAN 

the  dinner  table  when  Commencement  was  over, 
and  could  there  have  read  its  hopes  and  plans  so 
alien  to  her  own,  her  heart  would  have  been  nearly 
broken. 

Thomasina  Davis  was  not  sanguine  about  Mrs. 
Lister's  easy  yielding  to  Richard's  wishes.  She  was 
prepared  to  talk  to  his  parents  by  the  hour  if  need 
be;  she  would  have  been  willing  to  live  on  bread 
and  water  and  go  without  shoes  so  that  he  should 
be  able  to  study.  She  was  determined  to  behold  in 
him  the  fruit  of  her  labors.  Faversham  had  been 
a  fellow  pupil  in  the  three  happy  years  away  from 
Walton ville;  to  send  Richard  Lister  to  him  with 
supple,  well-trained  fingers  and  with  fine  taste,  to 
have  Richard  say  to  him  that  he  was  a  pupil  of 
Thomasina  Davis,  was  a  reward  she  had  promised 
herself  since  Richard  had  sat  beside  her  piano  on 
a  high  chair,  enchanted  by  her  music.  Thomasina, 
unlike  Mrs.  Lister,  had  a  profound  respect,  an 
adoration,  indeed,  for  genius.  This  adoration  was 
innate,  but  it  owed  its  strength  to  certain  events 
in  her  past,  a  past  which  seemed  to  Mrs.  Lister  to 
have  been  pathetically  empty  of  most  of  women's 
joys. 

When  Commencement  and  the  Commencement 
dinner  were  over,  Richard  felt  suddenly  restless. 
He  realized  that  there  was  nothing  that  he  must  do, 
that  no  lessons  waited.  He  sat  for  a  while  talking 
with  his  mother's  guests,  then  he  went  out  to  the 
kitchen,  meaning  to  escape  across  the  campus  to 
the  chapel  and  play.  That  was  what  he  wanted  and 
needed,  the  touch  of  the  smooth  keys  under  his 


A  NEW  PIANO  75 

fingers,  the  sound  of  the  full,  rich  organ  tones,  to 
give  him,  instead  of  this  sense  of  idleness  and  empti- 
ness, a  consciousness  of  all  the  work  that  was  be- 
ginning. 

But  there  were  obstacles  in  the  way  of  his  play- 
ing. The  chapel  organ  and  the  assembly  room  piano 
were  public;  he  would  have  an  audience  in  a  few 
minutes,  and  he  did  not  wish  an  audience.  If  he 
could  find  some  one  to  play  duets  with  him,  he 
would  have  the  volume  of  sound  for  which  his  ear 
longed.  Thomasina  was  away;  only  Cora  Scott 
remained.  Cora  did  not  read  well,  but  they  could 
play  compositions  which  she  knew. 

'Manda  paused  in  her  dishwashing  to  regard  him 
with  a  warm  and  beaming  glance  which  expressed 
entire  sympathy  with  him  in  his  flight. 

"Goin'  to  git  out,  honey?" 

"Yes,  'Mandy,  I'se  goin'  to  git  out." 

Making  a  wide  detour  in  the  shrubbery  and  round 
the  back  of  the  chapel,  he  approached  the  Scotts' 
porch.  Then  he  stopped  short.  There  in  white  splen- 
dor sat  the  stranger  whom  he  had  seen  that  morn- 
ing in  the  chapel  gallery.  He  turned  promptly 
away. 

"No  sitting  for  an  hour  listening  to  that!"  said 
he. 

Then  it  was,  swayed  by  the  slight  incident  of 
Evan  Utterly's  presence,  that  Richard,  who  had 
hitherto  sailed  in  such  a  calm  domestic  stream, 
turned  his  boat  into  another  and  an  alien  channel. 
He  said  to  himself  that  he  would  play,  that  he 
would  perish  if  he  did  not  play.  He  considered 


76  BASIL  EVERMAN 

going  to  Thomasii^a's,  even  though  she  was  not  at 
home  and  rousing  'Meha  from  her  afternoon  nap  to 
let  him  in.  But  when  he  had  reached  Thomasina's 
gate,  he  thought  of  Eleanor  Bent. 

Eleanor  played  well;  he  had  heard  her  at  Thoma- 
sina's. She  was  pretty  and  bright,  but  not  very 
friendly.  There  was,  he  believed,  something  queer 
about  her  and  her  mouselike  little  mother.  He 
had  a  vague  feeling  that  his  own  mother  would  not 
quite  approve  of  his  going  to  their  house. 

But  he  had  set  his  mind  upon  playing  the  Eighth 
Symphony,  and,  if  possible,  several  other  sympho- 
nies. He  had,  he  remembered  suddenly  and  happily, 
a  volume  of  music  belonging  to  Eleanor  Bent,  which 
he  had  carried  away  by  accident  from  Thomasina's. 
He  would  take  this  round  to  Eleanor,  and  if  she 
were  not  cordial  or  the  piano  not  tolerable,  he 
would  come  away. 

With  the  same  care  he  stole  back  through  the 
shrubbery  to  the  kitchen  door  and  succeeded,  after 
ludicrous  blunders,  in  getting  through  'Manda  the 
volume  which  he  sought.  As  he  crossed  the  campus 
again,  he  saw  Utterly  rising  from  his  chair.  But  the 
die  was  cast;  it  was  with  Eleanor  Bent  that  he 
wished  to  play  and  not  with  Cora  Scott.  He  kept 
on  his  way  through  the  college  gate  and  down  the 
broad  street  which  led  to  the  other  side  of  the  town, 
whistling  softly  as  he  went,  and  feeling  a  sense  of 
freedom  and  adventure. 

Mrs.  Bent  let  him  in  from  the  little  front  porch 
to  the  neat  little  hall.  He  explained  that  he  was 
Richard  Lister  and  that  he  had  come  to  return  a 


A  NEW  PIANO  77 

book  of  Eleanor's,  and  she  invited  him  into  the 
parlor,  saying  that  Eleanor  would  appear  in  a  few 
minutes.  Eleanor  had  had  a  surprise,  she  explained, 
which  had  delayed  their  dinner.  Her  cheeks  were 
flushed;  she  seemed  to  be  excited. 

There  was  nothing  queer  to  Richard's  eye,  either 
in  Mrs.  Bent,  or,  at  his  first  glance,  in  the  interior  of 
her  little  house.  All  was  fresh  and  neat  and  simple 
and  in  good  taste.  There  was  a  picture  opposite 
the  door,  a  view  of  the  Castel  Angelo,  exactly  like 
one  which  hung  in  his  father's  study;  there  were 
pretty  curtains,  there  was  —  Richard  stopped 
short  in  the  doorway,  the  bright  color  in  his  fair 
cheeks  fading  rapidly  away  and  then  as  suddenly 
returning.  Here  before  him  in  the  parlor  of  this 
little  gray  house,  unknown  of  him,  was  a  new  piano ! 
Moreover,  it  was  a  magnificent  grand  piano,  finer 
than  Thomasina's,  finer,  indeed,  than  any  piano 
he  had  ever  seen.  He  did  not  need  to  read  the 
name  on  the  front;  its  very  shape  was  familiar  to 
him  from  catalogues  at  which  he  had  gazed  in  in- 
expressible longing. 

"Why,  Mrs.  Bent!"  cried  Richard. 

Mrs.  Bent  smiled  in  her  frightened  way  at  his 
confusion  and  delight. 

"That  is  the  surprise,"  said  she.  "It  is  hers.  It 
came  while  she  was  at  the  exercises." 

"It  looks  as  though  it  had  n't  been  touched!" 

"  It  has  n't.  She  had  sort  of  a  queer  spell  when  she 
saw  it"  — was  that  right,  or  was  it  "seen"?  — 
"  I  said  she  would  better  eat  something." 

"It  was  a  surprise  to  her?"^ 


78  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"Yes."  i 

"How  glorious!  I  wish  some  one  would  surprise 
me  that  way!" 

Left  alone,  Richard  walked  round  and  round 
staring  at  the  shining  rosewood  and  the  gleaming 
keys.  He  had  expected  —  he  almost  laughed  aloud 
as  he  remembered  —  an  upright  piano  of  a  poor 
make,  covered  with  a  velvet  cover  laden  with  vases 
and  photographs.  Thus  was  the  Scott  piano  deco- 
rated. And  here  was  really  a  grand  piano,  and  the 
best  grand  piano  that  could  be  bought!  If  he  might 
only  play  it! 

Eleanor  found  him  walking  about.  She  held  out 
her  hand,  like  her  mother  all  excitement  and  friend- 
liness. She  still  wore  her  beautiful  embroidered 
dress,  full  in  the  skirt  and  low  in  the  neck.  Her 
hair  was  ruffled  and  her  eyes  more  than  ever  bril- 
liant. 

There  were  no  introductory  explanations.  Rich- 
ard forgot  to  say  why  he  had  come,  never  explained, 
indeed,  until  long  afterward  when  together,  as  is 
the  custom  of  those  in  like  case,  they  made  each 
impulse,  each  trivial  incident  of  their  association 
the  subject  of  conversation. 

"It  has  n't  been  touched,"  said  Eleanor.  "When 
I  saw  it  I  forgot  how  to  play ! " 

"Does  Miss  Thomasina  know  about  it?" 

"She  selected  it  in  Baltimore.  She  had  known 
about  it  for  weeks  and  I  knew  nothing.  It  does  n't 
seem  as  though  it  could  be  real.  Will  you,  oh,  wiU 
you  play  it  first?" 

Richard  turned  pale  once  more. 


A  NEW  PIANO  79 

"I'm  not  sure  that  I  can  play  either.  I'm  not 
sure  that  I  ever  touched  a  piano!" 

"Oh,  you  can!  Something  with  great,  heavy, 
rolHng,  smashing  chords.  I  know  that  if  I  touch  it 
it  will  disappear,  and  I  can't  possibly  wait  till  Miss 
Thomasina  comes  home.  I  never  could  have  got 
through  Commencement  if  I  had  known  it  was 
here." 

"Nor  I.  If  I  had  met  it,  I  would  have  followed  it 
like  the  children  follow  the  elephant,  and  some  one 
else  might  have  saluted  the  audience.  It  makes 
Commencement  seem  like  three  cents." 

"Now,  play!"  commanded  Eleanor.  "Mother!" 

Mrs.  Bent  came  to  the  door.  Richard  saw  her 
look  at  her  daughter,  and  the  glance  was  worth 
coming  farther  than  this  to  see.  It  adored  her,  swept 
over  her  from  head  to  foot,  devoured  her.  Some- 
thing of  its  intensity  entered  into  Richard.  Eleanor 
was  older  than  he;  she  had  stood  ahead  of  him  in 
school;  she  had  scarcely  spoken  to  him  a  dozen 
times;  but  she  became  in  that  moment  a  creature 
to  be  admired,  to  be  cherished.  Life  changed  for 
him,  boyhood  was  left  behind.  He  met  Eleanor's 
eyes  and  saw  in  them  youth,  curiosity  about 
himself,  restlessness,  a  reflection,  it  seemed  to  him, 
of  the  confused  emotions  of  his  own  heart.  It  was 
Eleanor's  gaze  which  first  turned  away. 

"The  concert  is  going  to  begin,  mother." 

Mrs.  Bent  sat  down  in  the  bay  window  and 
Eleanor  took  a  chair  from  which  she  could  watch 
Richard's  beautiful  hands.  Once  after  he  had  taken 
his  place  on  the  stool,  he  looked  into  her  eager  face. 


80  BASIL  EVERMAN 

then  he  let  his  hands  fall  upon  the  keys.  He  shut 
his  eyes  to  keep  back  starting  tears.  He  remem- 
bered that  some  one  had  said  that  life  held  few 
moments  to  which  a  man  would  say,  "Stay,  thou 
art  so  fair!"  The  saying  was  not  true.  Here  was 
such  a  moment;  there  would  be  for  him,  he  knew, 
a  thousand  more. 

A  Schumann  Nachtstiick,  a  Bach  Prelude,  a 
Mozart  Sonata  rolled  from  under  his  fingers,  which 
then  danced  into  a  jig,  performances  allowed  by 
Thomasina.  There  were  others,  forbidden  except 
under  her  own  direction  and  in  careful,  studious 
sections.  These  Richard  now  hazarded  boldly  and 
played  them  not  ill.  A  dozen  compositions  finished, 
he  whirled  round  upon  the  piano  stool. 

"Won't  you  play,  now?" 
i  can  t. 

"Will  you  play  with  me?" 

"There  is  nothing  here." 

"I  brought  the  second  volume  of  Beethoven 
with  me." 

"I  will  try,"  promised  Eleanor. 

Richard  spread  the  music  open  on  the  rack. 
Both  had  been  trained  by  Thomasina,  both  played 
easily  and  well,  both  knew  their  parts.  Shoulders 
and  hands  touched;  sometimes  Richard  laughed 
aloud  from  sheer  pleasure,  sometimes  he  sang  an 
air,  sometimes  he  stopped  to  give  directions.  At 
that  Eleanor  laughed  a  little  nervously.  Richard 
seemed  to  all  his  mates  to  hold  himself  above  them, 
to  be  dictatorial.  He  had  seemed  all  of  this  to 
Eleanor,  but  now  she  obeyed  instantly. 


A  NEW  PIANO  81 

In  the  bay  window  Mrs.  Bent  sat  and  watched. 
She  could  not  have  looked  at  them  with  anything 
but  pleasure.  Eleanor  was  so  young,  so  pretty. 
There  was  no  mother  in  Waltonville  who  would 
not  have  been  pleased  to  see  her  daughter  playing 
duets  with  Richard  Lister. 

But  a  shadow  had  settled  on  Mrs.  Bent's  face. 
The  look  which  had  transfigured  her  changed  to 
a  look  of  anxiety  and  trouble.  She  had  years  ago 
made  wise  plans  for  her  life  and  Eleanor's  —  they 
had  begun  to  seem  now  not  wise,  but  insane.  They 
were  wicked,  because  they  were  made  in  one  of  the 
rages  into  which  she  had  fallen,  like  her  father,  in 
her  youth;  they  were  stupid,  because  they  had 
taken  no  account  of  the  future;  and  they  were 
selfish,  because  they  had  taken  no  account  of  any- 
thing but  her  own  fury. 

When  Dr.  Green  drove  by  in  his  buggy,  Mrs. 
Bent  laid  her  hand  with  a  gesture  which  was  almost 
melodramatic  across  her  heart,  and  stared  after 
him,  as  though  the  sight  of  him  had  for  an  instant 
illuminated  her  despair.  In  another  instant,  how- 
ever, the  shadow  returned  to  her  face  and  she  bent 
over  her  sewing. 

Dr.  Green  drove  by,  returned  and  passed  again, 
drove  a  mile  or  two  into  the  country  and  passed 
the  fourth  time.  He  thought  that  Eleanor  was 
playing,  and  he  said,  "Good  for  her!"  He  took  a 
great  deal  of  credit  to  himself  for  Eleanor. 

The  afternoon  light  softened,  shadows  began  to 
spread  over  the  little  garden.  When  Richard  rose  to 
go,  Mrs.  Bent  had  vanisheci,  and  the  two  young 


82  BASIL  EVERMAN 

people  looked  at  ^aeh  other,  startled  and  a  little 
bewildered,  trying  to  hide  their  confusion.  Eleanor 
did  not  say  "Come  back,"  nor  did  Richard  ask 
whether  he  might  come  again,  but  the  volume  was 
left  open  on  the  piano. 


CHAPTER  VII 

UTTERLY  SPENDS  A  PLEASANT  EVENING 

Utterly  sat  for  three  hours  with  Eleanor  Bent  on 
her  mother's  porch,  talking.  He  did  not  arrive  until 
eight  o'clock,  which  was  late  in  Waltonville,  and 
she  had  been  nervously  watching  for  him  for  an 
hour.  She  was  consumed  with  impatience  to  hear 
what  he  had  to  say.  If  her  story  had  not  been  ac- 
cepted, she  wished  to  know  it  at  once;  if,  perchance, 
he  had  come  to  advise  her  to  write  no  more  —  that 
also  she  wished  to  know  at  once.  She  did  not  wish 
the  young  man  —  if  that  gorgeously  clad  young 
man  were  really  the  messenger  of  the  gods  —  to 
stay  long;  she  needed,  after  the  excitement  of  the 
day,  to  be  alone,  to  be  quiet,  to  touch  her  piano  in 
the  darkness,  the  piano  dedicated  in  such  a  surpris- 
ing and  poetic  way. 

She  was  too  restless  to  play  it  now.  She  sat  for  a 
while  beside  her  mother,  who  was  sewing  beneath 
the  pleasant  lamp;  then  she  struck  a  few  chords; 
then  she  went  out  to  the  porch,  calling  to  her 
mother  not  to  expect  anything. 

"They  might  merely  be  sending  an  agent  to  town 
to  ask  people  to  subscribe  to  their  old  magazine, 
or  even  to  ask  me  to  be  agent.  John  Simms  has 
been  and  he  is  going  away.  That  is  it,  I  am  sure, 
mother." 

When  she  saw  approaching  through  the  twilight 


84  BASIL  EVERMAN 

the  tall  figure  of  ttfe  stranger,  she  summoned  Mrs. 
Bent  and  let  that  frightened  little  woman  greet 
him. 

Utterly  anticipated  in  the  evening's  call  a  pleas- 
ant experience.  The  wide  landscape  lay  soft  and 
beautiful  in  the  moonlight,  a  panorama  spread  for 
his  delectation.  He  called  it,  in  the  city-dweller's 
metaphor,  a  beautiful  stage-set.  After  she  had 
greeted  him,  Mrs.  Bent  went  back  to  her  work. 
Except  for  a  few  moments  an  hour  later  when  she 
came  out  to  put  on  the  porch  table  a  tray  with  a 
plate  of  cake  and  tinkling  glasses,  Utterly  saw  her 
no  more. 

He  regarded  the  young  woman  before  him  with  a 
critical  eye.  She  was  beautiful,  of  that  there  was  no 
question.  She  was  talented  also,  and  though  she 
was  still  immature  and  provincial,  she  was  not  awk- 
ward or  self-conscious.  She  accepted  the  announce- 
ment which  he  had  come  to  make  as  quietly  as  any 
of  the  older,  more  sophisticated  women  with  whom 
he  associated  would  have  accepted  it. 

"I  hope  you  are  pleased." 

"Very  much,"  answered  Eleanor  in  a  quiet  voice 
which  belied  the  tumult  within.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  could  hardly  breathe. 

"And  you  will  keep  on  writing?" 

"Oh,  yes!'^  said  Eleanor. 

"You  keep  notebooks,  I  suppose,  and  record  all 
your  impressions.^" 

"Yes." 

"And  you  read  a  great  deal?" 

"Yes." 


UTTERLY  SPENDS  A  PLEASANT  EVENING     85 

"How  do  you  mean  to  get  new  impressions?  Are 
you  going  to  stay  here?"  Utterly 's  voice  now  dis- 
paraged Waltonville. 

"I  had  not  thought  of  going  away,"  said  Eleanor. 
"I  have  just  graduated  to-day  and  I  have  n't  any 
particular  plans." 

"You  and  your  mother  are  alone?" 

"Yes." 

"Could  n't  you  have  a  winter  in  New  York?'* 

"I  had  thought  that  sometime  I  might  go  to 
Boston,"  said  Eleanor. 

Utterly  sniffed  the  air.  He  had,  he  said,  little 
opinion  of  Boston  as  an  experience.  Boston  was  of 
the  past.  No  one  got  experience  of  anything  but  the 
past  there,  and  the  past  one  ought  to  try  to  get 
away  from. 

"A  writer  must  have  stimulation,"  he  went  on. 
"A  woman's  talent  is,  in  far  greater  degree  than 
a  man's,  dependent  upon  outside  influences;  it  is 
far  less  self -nourished  and  self -originated ;  she  must 
have  life,  though  not  too  much  life,  and  she  must 
hold  herself  in  a  measure  separate  from  it." 

Utterly  added  to  this  sage  prescription  a  "don't 
you  know,"  and  Eleanor  answered  with  a  hesitat- 
ing "yes."  She  was,  in  spite  of  her  confusion,  a  little 
amused.  Utterly  had  come  half  a  day  too  late;  had 
he  presented  himself  last  evening  instead  of  this, 
he  might  have  made  a  deeper  impression. 

Presently  he  ceased  to  ask  questions  and  began 
to  orate.  In  this  audience  he  found  none  of  the 
stupid  dullness  which  he  had  observed  in  Dr.  Scott, 
none  of  the  silent  unresponsiveness  of  Dr.  Lister. 


86  BASIL  EVERMAN 

All  that  he  would  hJave  said  yesterday  to  his  fellow 
travelers  if  they  had  had  minds  to  understand,  all 
that  he  would  have  said  to-day  to  Dr.  Lister  and 
Dr.  Scott,  if  they  had  had  ears  to  hear,  all  that  he 
would  have  said  at  any  time  to  any  one  who  would 
listen,  he  said  now.  He  discussed  schools  of  writ- 
ing, ancient  and  modern;  he  discussed  the  influence 
of  Shelley  upon  the  young  Browning,  the  place  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe  in  American  literature  and  in 
English  literature  as  a  whole,  and  finally,  the  ethics 
of  biographical  writing.  The  heat  with  which  he 
spoke  upon  the  last  topic  was  the  sudden  bursting 
into  flame  of  the  embers  which  had  smoldered  since 
the  afternoon.  Had  the  world  a  right  to  all  it  could 
learn  of  the  lives  of  geniuses,  or  had  it  not?  It  most 
assuredly  had,  declared  Utterly.  An  author's  acts 
in  the  world,  an  artist's,  a  musician's,  were  as  much 
the  property  of  the  world  as  they  were  the  prop- 
erty of  the  recording  angel  —  if  modern  theology 
had  not  banished  that  person  from  modern  life. 
He  spoke  of  the  invaluable  revelations  of  old  letters, 
which  proved  so  clearly  that  no  matter  how  long 
the  world  believed  that  writers  evolved  from  their 
inner  consciousness  the  material  of  their  work,  in 
the  end  it  was  proved  to  have  a  foundation  in  actual 
experience.  Time  and  scholarly  investigation  were 
showing  what  was  long  suspected  and  long  denied, 
that  Charlotte  Bronte's  own  life  had  furnished  her 
with  her  "stuff." 

Experience  in  life,  however,  must,  so  said  Utterly, 
go  only  so  far,  must  stop  short  before  a  man  or 
woman  was  bound  to  obligations  which  would  rob 


UTTERLY  SPENDS  A  PLEASANT  EVENING     87 

him  of  his  freedom.  Only  a  few  great  men  had  been 
men  of  family,  or,  being  men  of  family,  had  got  on 
with  their  families.  There  was  Byron,  for  instance, 
and  there  was  Shelley,  and  there  were  dozens  of 
others  on  the  tip  of  his  tongue. 

To  the  most  of  this  fluent  outpouring  his  dazzled 
audience  made  only  polite  general  responses.  She 
knew,  thank  fortune!  a  good  deal  about  each  of  the 
authors  whom  he  mentioned.  Shelley  she  had  read 
from  cover  to  cover  and  Byron  also,  and  Charlotte 
Bronte,  of  course.  But  she  did  not  know  much 
about  them  as  human  beings.  Dr.  Scott  having  an 
old-fashioned  way  of  requiring  a  reading  of  the 
works  of  great  authors,  rather  than  a  knowledge  of 
their  lives. 

Finally  Utterly  spoke  of  the  works  of  Basil  Ever- 
man.  One  could  almost  make  up  Basil  Everman's 
life  from  his  works,  so  clearly  did  they  indicate  the 
storm  and  stress  of  spirit  in  which  he  must  con- 
stantly have  lived. 

"I  believe  I  don't  know  who  Basil  Everman 
was,"  confessed  Eleanor,  mortified  by  her  own 
ignorance.  "Was  he  related  to  Dr.  Lister?" 

"Of  course  you  don't  know!"  Utterly  leaned 
back  in  his  chair,  his  voice  sharp  with  sarcasm.  "It 
is  apparently  the  deliberate  intention  of  this  com- 
munity not  only  to  quench  all  sparks  of  divine  fire, 
but  to  hide  their  ashes.  Basil  Everman  was  the 
brother  of  the  wife  of  your  college  president;  he 
grew  up  in  this  town,  a  person  of  extraordinary 
mind;  he  died.  But  nobody  remembers  him  or  seems 
to  want  to  remember  him.  It  is  an  attitude  not  pecu- 


88  BASIL  EVERMAN 

liar  to  Waltonville;  it  is  characteristic  of  Keokuk, 
Ishpeming,  and  many  other  communities,  bourgeois, 
intolerable,  insane." 

When  Utterly  went  at  eleven  o'clock,  Eleanor 
flew  to  her  mother.  She  was  excited  and  elated,  her 
wonderful  day  had  sloped  to  no  anticlimax. 

"They  have  taken  my  story,  mother,  and  I  am 
lo  have  seventy-five  dollars!" 

** Seventy-five  dollars!  Land  of  love!"  repeated 
Mrs.  Bent.  "Why,  Eleanor!"  Mrs.  Bent's  cheeks 
grew  red,  then  pale. 

"Mr.  Utterly  thinks  that  I  really  can  amount 
to  something.  He  thinks  we  should  go  to  New  York, 
mother,  and  sometime  to  Europe.  He  says  one 
must  have  many  different  things  to  write  about, 
and  of  course  that  is  true.  Are  you  pleased, 
mother?" 

"Oh,  yes!"  Mrs.  Bent  gasped,  as  though  events 
were  happening  too  fast  for  her  to  follow. 

"And,  mother,  did  you  ever  know  any  one  by 
the  name  of  Basil  Everman  when  you  lived  here 
long  ago.f^" 

Mrs.  Bent  rose  and  gathered  her  work  together. 
Her  face  reddened  again  with  the  flush  which  came 
and  went  so  easily.  She  looked  not  only  startled, 
but  frightened.  For  some  reason  Eleanor  remem- 
bered the  long-past  encounter  with  drunken  Bates 
on  the  shady  street.  As  Mrs.  Bent  answered,  she 
walked  out  into  the  darkened  kitchen,  her  voice 
coming  back  with  a  muffled  sound. 

"He  did  n't  talk  about  Basil  Everman!" 

"Yes,  he  did.  He  said  that  Basil  Everman  wrote 


UTTERLY  SPENDS  A  PLEASANT  EVENING     89 

wonderfully,  and  that  nobody  in  Waltonville  ap- 
preciated him  or  was  willing  to  tell  anything  about 
him.  Did  you  know  him,  mother?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Bent.  "I  knew  him."  She 
came  back  into  the  lamplight.  "Ain't  you  sleepy, 
Eleanor?"  But  Eleanor  was  not  to  be  thus  easily 
turned  away.  Basil  Everman  was  Richard  Lister's 
uncle  and  that  was  enough  to  make  him  interesting. 

"Did  you  know  him  well,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Bent  put  out  her  hand  toward  the  lamp. 

"Start  upstairs,  then  I'll  outen  the  light." 

"Did  you  say  you  knew  him  well,  mother?" 

"Not  so  very  well." 

"Did  you  know  about  his  writing?" 

"No."    y 

"Is  Richard  anything  like  him?" 

"No." 

"Was  he  anything  like  Mrs.  Lister?" 

"No."  Mrs.  Bent  turned  out  the  lamp  and  fol- 
lowed Eleanor  up  the  stairs.  At  the  head  she  bade 
her  good-night.  At  the  window  of  her  room,  which 
looked  toward  the  garden  and  the  houses  of  the 
town,  she  sat  a  long  time.  There  was  on  her  face 
the  same  expression  of  alarm  that  had  rested  there 
when  she  sat  in  the  parlor  listening  to  Richard  and 
Eleanor  play.  It  was  the  expression  of  one  who  felt 
herself  to  be  entangled  in  a  net  from  which  there 
was  no  escape. 

Eleanor  was  certain  that  she  should  not  close  her 
eyes.  She  had  been  waiting  hours  for  this  moment, 
when  she  might  sit  down  by  her  window  and  think 
of  Richard  Lister,  of  the  crisp  waves  of  his  hair. 


90  BASIL  EVERMAN 

of  his  strong  young  hands  which  moved  so  swiftly. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  played  not  only  upon 
the  piano,  but  upon  her,  making  her  fingers  fly 
faster  and  more  lightly  than  they  had  ever  moved. 
Her  heart  expanded,  her  soul  seemed  to  burgeon 
and  to  bloom. 

She  wanted  to  think  not  only  of  this  day's 
experience,  but  of  the  past.  She  had  seen  Richard 
daily  at  college  for  four  years,  she  had  sat  with  him 
in  the  same  classes,  but  she  had  never  known  that 
he  was  like  this !  She  had  met  him,  also,  coming  and 
going  from  Thomasina's.  He  must  have  made, 
though  she  was  unconscious  of  it  at  the  time,  a  deep 
impression  upon  her,  because  she  could  recall  every 
motion  of  his  light-stepping  figure  as  he  moved 
from  the  flag  walk  to  let  her  pass.  She  remembered 
the  straight  line  in  which  his  coat  fell  from  his 
shoulders  as  he  sat  at  Thomasina's  piano,  she 
could  see  his  flashing  smile.  She  tried  to  remember 
the  details  of  the  appearance  of  others,  and  de- 
cided with  satisfaction  that  she  had  forgotten  them. 
She  heard  the  clock  strike  twelve,  then  one,  and 
still  she  sat  by  the  window,  every  faculty  alert, 
the  heavenly  consciousness  of  expansion  and  growth 
growing  keener.  She  remembered  hours  of  discour- 
agement when  time  moved  so  slowly  and  nothing 
seemed  to  get  done.  Now  everything  moved  toward 
a  happy  conclusion.  The  moonlight  had  never  shone 
so  soft,  the  night  air  had  never  been  so  sweet. 

After  she  had  gone  to  bed,  a  tiny  misgiving  crept 
into  her  pleasant  meditations,  the  forerunner  of  a 
score  of  anxious  questions  which  had  long  been 


UTTERLY  SPENDS  A  PLEASANT  EVENING     91 

shaping  themselves  without  her  knowledge.  For  a 
moment  she  could  not  quite  grasp  the  cause,  and 
lay  still,  her  heart  beating  faster  and  faster.  She 
had  done  —  she  realized  it  now  in  a  flash  —  a 
dreadful  thing.  In  "Professor  Ellenborough's  Last 
Class"  she  had  made  humorous  use  of  some  of  the 
small  mannerisms  of  the  college  professors.  Little 
habits  of  Dr.  Lister's  were  described;  his  constant 
swinging  of  his  foot,  the  tendency  of  his  shoelaces 
to  dangle,  and  his  drawing-in  of  his  breath  with  a 
click  against  his  cheek.  Dr.  Scott's  den  was  there, 
though  in  reality  Eleanor's  material  was  drawn 
from  Dr.  Green's  office.  But  she  had  come  since 
morning  to  look  at  Dr.  Lister  and  Dr.  Scott  from 
a  different  angle,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  in  using 
them  even  to  so  small  an  extent  she  had  done  a 
monstrous  thing. 

The  isolation  of  her  mother  and  herself,  their 
complete  separation  from  Waltonville  and  its  citi- 
zens, became  for  the  first  time  a  source  of  anxiety. 
Hitherto  she  had  been  indifferent  to  the  fact  that 
she  was  almost  unacquainted  with  Mrs.  Lister. 
Now  it  became  a  serious  matter. 

She  remembered  that  her  volume  of  Mozart 
Sonatas  had  appeared  mysteriously  —  that  was 
why  Richard  had  come  to  the  house  and  not  to  see 
her!  The  duets  had  been  an  afterthought,  suggested 
by  the  new  piano.  He  had  merely  happened  to  have 
the  book  with  him,  being  on  his  way  doubtless  to 
Thomasina's.  He  would  come  to-morrow  to  fetch 
it  —  it  was  evidently  his  dear,  careless  way  to  leave 
things  about  —  and  then  he  would  come  no  more. 


92  BASIL  EVERMAN 

If  he  did  not  come  again  —  Eleanor  looked  out 
over  the  moonUt  fields  and  faced  another  problem, 
more  serious  than  the  recollection  of  Dr.  Lister's 
dangling  shoelaces  —  or  if  he  came  to-morrow  and 
took  his  book  away  and  made  her  feel  that  they 
were  strangers,  then  she  would  suspect  that  for 
Richard  and  the  Listers,  and  therefore  for  Walton- 
ville,  she  and  her  mother  were  unknown  because 
they  were  unknowable.  If  Waltonville  were  merely 
careless  or  thoughtless  or  indifferent  —  that  was 
nothing.  But  if  Waltonville  were  deliberate,  that 
was  another  matter. 

She  could  not  sleep,  though  she  longed  now 
intensely  to  sleep.  Another  disturbing  thought 
roused  her  to  greater  wakefulness.  Her  mother 
seemed  always  to  have  ample  supplies  of  money 
for  their  needs.  But  the  price  of  the  beautiful  piano 
must  have  been  enormous  —  had  her  mother  been 
unwisely  extravagant.^  She  should  be  told  about 
their  affairs. 

When,  at  last,  she  fell  asleep,  it  was  to  disturbing 
dreams.  Bates  appeared  to  threaten  her  and  she 
fled  from  him.  She  called  upon  Richard  Lister  to 
rescue  her,  and  Richard  proved  to  be  not  himself, 
but  Dr.  Green,  who  would  have  none  of  her.  This 
imaginary  behavior  of  Dr.  Green  was  not  unjust, 
since  all  day  Eleanor  had  not  thought  of  him  who 
was  next  to  her  mother  her  best  friend. 


CHAPTER  Vni 

UTTERLY  IS  PUT  UPON  HIS  METTLE 

In  the  morning  Utterly  continued  the  search  which 
was  the  chief  object  of  his  visit  to  Waltonville. 
Passing  the  house  of  Dr.  Green  soon  after  break- 
fast, he  beheld  that  gentleman  sitting  inside  his 
window.  Dr.  Green  looked  up  absent-mindedly  and 
bowed.  Utterly  stopped  short. 

*'I  have  had  an  amusing  time  hunting  for  my 
Basil  Everman,"  said  he  in  his  high,  clear  voice. 

Dr.  Green  laid  his  paper  on  his  knee  and  looked 
over  his  spectacles. 

"Did  you  find  him.?>" 

"I  found  he  was  Mrs.  Lister's  brother,  but  not 
much  more.  They  seem  singularly  averse  to  an- 
swering questions  about  him,  to  say  nothing  of 
offering  any  information." 

"Possibly  there  isn't  anything  to  offer,"  said 
Dr.  Green,  returning  to  his  paper. 

Thus  dismissed,  Utterly  departed,  having  taken 
a  long  and  astonished  stare  into  Dr.  Green's  chaotic 
office,  and  having  decided  that  he  never  saw  a  spot 
better  suited  to  the  harboring  of  germs. 

Now  he  sought  the  cemetery  beside  the  college 
church,  and  there  gave  expression  to  a  "By  Jove!" 
The  building  copied  exactly  the  old  Colonial  church 
first  built  on  that  spot,  and  was  as  beautiful  in 
proportions  and  design  as  any  Colonial  building  he 


94  BASIL  EVERMAN 

had  ever  seen.  Stil? looking  up,  he  walked  round  it, 
gazing  at  the  tall  steeple  with  its  fine  lantern  and 
at  the  high,  narrow  windows  with  their  delicate, 
diamond-patterned  old  glass.  Then  with  another 
"By  Jove!"  he  began  to  search  for  the  family  plot 
of  the  Evermans. 

Without  diflBculty  he  found  the  place  where 
Richard  Everman  and  his  wife  lay  side  by  side 
under  heavy  slabs  of  marble.  Of  their  son  Basil 
there  was  no  memorial.  For  a  while  he  wandered 
about  reading  names  and  inscriptions,  then,  shak- 
ing his  head  in  strong  disapproval  of  death  and 
all  its  emblems,  he  passed  through  the  gate  once 
more  and  out  to  the  street.  He  decided  that  he 
would  wander  about  and  steep  himself  in  Walton- 
ville's  primitive  atmosphere.  He  grew  more  and 
more  baffled  and  angry,  and  more  certain  that  in- 
formation was  being  kept  from  him.  Descriptive 
sentences  formed  themselves  tantalizingly  in  his 
mind.  "Here  in  this  quiet  spot,  surrounded  by 
quiet  influences,  belonging  to  the  family  of  a  clergy- 
man, growing  up  under  the  shadow  of  the  old  church, 
was  developing  one  of  the  most  somber  geniuses 
to  which  our  nation  has  given  birth."  Until  noon, 
still  constructing  sentences,  he  wandered  unhappily. 

In  the  afternoon  he  returned  to  the  Listers'  for 
his  magazines.  Again  Dr.' Lister  sat  on  the  porch; 
Utterly  said  to  himself  angrily  that  his  manner 
was  as  stolid  as  his  mind  was  stupid. 

Dr.  Lister  agreed  with  him  that  Basil  Everman's 
contributions  to  "Willard's  Magazine"  were  re- 
markable, that  they  gave  extraordinary  promise. 


UTTERLY  IS  PUT  UPON  HIS  METTLE        95 

"Then  it  is  certain  that  Basil  Everman  had 
extraordinary  experience  of  life,  and  that  that  ex- 
perience is  the  property  of  those  interested  in  him." 

"Not  necessarily."  Dr.  Lister  reversed  the  posi- 
tion of  his  knees  as  was  his  habit.  He  now  made 
what  was  for  him  a  long  speech.  "I  have  talked 
at  length  with  Mrs.  Lister  about  him.  Even  after 
these  many  years  it  is  difficult  for  her  to  speak  of 
him.  There  is  apparently  no  foundation  whatsoever 
for  your  supposition  that  he  led  a  life  in  any  way 
different  from  the  ordinary  life  of  a  young  man  in 
this  community.  He  was  an  omnivorous  reader,  and, 
I  gather,  a  reader  of  most  careful  taste.  It  is  my 
judgment  that  any  one  who  carried  about  with  him 
volumes  of  Euripides  and  ^schylus  did  not  — " 

"  Did  he  do  that.^^ "  Utterly  took  out  his  notebook. 

" — Did  not  need  any  personal  experience  with 
the  strange  contrarieties  of  the  human  mind  or  the 
strange  twists  of  fate  in  order  to  write  either  '  Roses 
of  Psestum'  or  'Bitter  Bread.'  I  am  sorry  for  your 
disappointment,  Mr.  Utterly,  but  there  really  is 
nothing  beside  the  simple  facts  which  we  have  told 
you.  If  there  were  any  possibility  of  establishing  a 
posthumous  fame  for  Basil,  surely  an  affectionate 
sister  would  be  the  last  to  withhold  information 
leading  to  such  a  result !  I  think  —  if  you  will  allow 
a  much  older  man  to  express  an  opinion  —  I  think 
you  are  building  upon  entirely  false  premises.  The 
constructive  power  of  the  human  imagination  is 
greater  than  you  are  willing  to  believe.  What  deep 
or  wide  experience  could  this  young  man  have  had.^^ 
He  could  not  have  been  much  over  twenty  when 


96  BASIL  EVERMAN 

he  wrote  these  articles.  They  were  pubHshed  —  at 
least  two  were  pubhshed  —  before  he  died,  and  then 
he  was  less  than  twenty-five.  He  must  have  been 
living  here  at  home  when  they  were  written.  He 
had  never  been  away  from  home  except  for  occa- 
sional visits  to  Baltimore.  His  ability  to  imagine 
the  heat,  the  blue  sky,  the  loneliness  of  Psestum 
without  ever  having  been  to  Italy  is  proved  beyond 
a  doubt;  why  could  he  not  picture  the  heat  and  the 
passion  of  the  human  heart  of  which  each  one  of  us 
has  such  conclusive  proof  within  him?" 

Utterly  did  not  care  for  general  speculations. 

"How  did  he  happen  to  die  in  Baltimore?"  he 
asked. 

"He  happened  to  be  there  on  business  when  he 
was  smitten  with  malignant  diphtheria,"  explained 
Dr.  Lister  again  patiently.  "His  death  occurred 
about  the  same  time  as  that  of  his  father.  Mrs. 
Lister  lost  in  a  short  period  her  father  and  her 
brother.  She  lost  also  in  a  sense  her  home,  since  her 
father's  death  made  it  necessary  to  call  a  new  presi- 
dent to  the  college.  She  returned  to  this  house  upon 
her  marriage.  You  will  understand,  I  am  sure,  how 
gladly  she  would  furnish  you  with  information  if  it 
would  in  the  slightest  degree  give  her  brother  that 
fame  for  which  he  probably  longed.  You  will  under- 
stand also,  I  am  sure,  that  your  inquiry,  since  it  is 
so  unlikely  to  bear  any  profitable  fruit,  is  trying  to 
her." 

"But  it  will  be  profitable." 

"My  dear  sir,  the  world  has  moved  too  far  and 
too  fast  for  this  small  contribution,  excellent  as  it 


UTTERLY  IS  PUT  UPON  HIS  METTLE        97 

• 

is,  to  be  of  great  account!"  Dr.  Lister  spoke  with 
politeness,  but  there  had  crept  into  his  voice  at 
last  a  note  of  impatience.  He  thought  again  of  a 
nap.  Mrs.  Lister  had  accepted  an  invitation  to  Mrs. 
Scott's  for  the  evening,  and  an  evening  at  Mrs. 
Scott's  was  not  to  be  endured  without  all  possible 
physical  and  mental  fortifying  of  one's  self.  He 
wished  most  earnestly  that  the  young  man  would  go. 

"And  he  left  nothing  else?" 

"Nothing." 

"No  notes?" 

"Nothing." 

Utterly  bade  his  host  farewell  and  went  across 
the  campus  and  out  the  gate.  For  a  second  he  was 
convinced  that  his  errand  was  a  fool's  errand.  But 
"Bitter  Bread"  and  "Roses  of  Psestum"  did  exist 
—  an  account  of  their  author  was  valuable,  even 
if  he  had  never  written  another  line.  Debating 
with  himself  whether  he  should  now  shake  the  dust 
of  Waltonville  from  his  feet  or  whether  he  should 
make  another  effort  to  shake  from  its  stupid  mind 
some  of  the  recollections  which  in  spite  of  all  testi- 
mony to  the  contrary  must  exist,  he  walked  back 
to  the  hotel.  There,  he  discovered,  the  question  had 
been  decided  for  him.  The  four-o'clock  train,  which 
had  gone,  was  the  last  train  that  day.  He  was  al- 
most as  angry  as  he  would  have  been  if  the  B.  &  N. 
had  arranged  its  schedule  to  try  his  patience  and 
if  Basil  Everman  had  lived  his  brief  life,  had 
written  his  great  works,  and  had  died  to  spite  him. 

Then,  as  he  turned  away  from  questioning  the 
landlord,  he  took  heart  once  more.  Above  the  damp, 


98  BASIL  EVERMAN 

unpleasant  bar  with  its  dripping  glasses,  its  show 
of  tawdry  bottles,  hung,  faded  and  fly-blown,  the 
picture  described  in  "Bitter  Bread."  Utterly  set 
his  lips  and  swung  out  his  hands  with  a  crack  of 
the  joints. 

The  Listers  notwithstanding,  the  stolid  landlord 
behind  the  bar  notwithstanding,  he  would  learn 
what  was  to  be  learned  about  Basil  Everman.  Even 
if  Basil  Everman  had  never  written  anything,  he 
would  still  pursue  his  search. 

At  that  moment  he  found  before  him  and  close 
to  him  a  vessel  of  testimony  more  important  than 
the  old  picture.  This  was  one  of  the  miserable 
sodden  creatures  whom  he  had  seen  in  the  bar- 
room and  on  the  hotel  porch,  perhaps  the  most  for- 
lorn and  disreputable  of  them  all.  It  was  afternoon; 
he  had  recovered  from  the  morning's  stupor  .and 
evening  drowsiness  was  not  yet  upon  him. 

"You  were  asking  yesterday  about  young  Basil 
Everman,"  said  he  with  a  thick  tongue.  "I  knew 
young  Basil  Everman." 

Utterly's  loathing  of  the  bloated  face,  the  soiled 
clutching  hand,  was  not  as  keen  as  his  pleasure. 

"I  was  a  good  friend  to  him,"  said  the  drunkard. 

Utterly  drew  the  miserable  creature  across  the 
hall  to  a  dark  little  parlor  where  dampness  and  the 
odor  of  beer  were  only  a  shade  less  unpleasant,  that 
same  parlor  where  Margie  Ginter  had  entertained 
her  admiring  friends.  There  he  sat  him  down  in  the 
most  comfortable  chair. 

"What  is  your  name?" 

"My  name  is  Bates." 


UTTERLY  IS  PUT  UPON  HIS  METTLE        99 

"What  do  you  do  for  a  living?" 

Bates  explained  that  he  was  a  lawyer,  but  that 
business  was  poor  and  he  could  not  really  earn  a 
living.  It  had  not  always  been  this  way;  when  Basil 
Everman  was  young,  things  had  been  different, 
very  different.  He  had  associated  with  the  best 
people  then,  he  had  had  plenty  of  money.  Now 
he  had  nothing.  Contemplating  his  misery.  Bates 
wept. 

With  leaping  heart  Utterly  took  his  measure. 

"I  will  give  you  five  dollars  if  you  will  tell  me 
everything  you  know  about  Basil  Everman." 

At  this  munificent  offer  Bates  wept  again  and 
made  an  unsuccessful  effort  to  stroke  the  hand  of 
his  benefactor,  who  realized  that  he  might  have 
purchased  the  commodity  he  was  bargaining  for 
with  a  quarter  of  a  dollar. 

Bates  began  making  apologies  for  himself,  to 
which  Utterly  listened  impatiently  and  which  he 
presently  cut  short. 

"About  Basil  Everman,"  said  he.  "Did  you  know 
him  when  he  was  a  boy.^^" 

Bates  said  that  he  had  known  Basil  always. 
Weeping  he  described  Basil  in  his  childhood. 

"He  would  hold  my  hand,  this  one."  He  put  out 
his  hand  palsied  by  dissipation.  "I  would  tell  him 
stories  and  stories." 

"And  then  you  knew  him  when  he  was  a  young 
man?"  said  Utterly  briskly. 

Bates  blinked  at  him  uncomprehendingly.  The 
brief  period  of  sobriety  was  passing.  He  was  already, 
in  anticipation,  drunk  upon  Utterly's  bounty.  Then 


100  BASIL  EVERMAN 

he  mumbled  some  tiling  about  a  pretty  girK  Utterly 
leaned  forward,  his  soul  crying  Eureka!  But  the 
well  was  almost  dry.  Bates  could  only  complain 
that  Basil  had  got  a  girl  away  from  him,  that  Mary 
Alcestis  would  never  speak  to  him  nowadays,  and 
that  he  had  had  bad  luck  for  thirty  years.  Utterly 
closed  the  door;  he  coaxed,  he  cajoled,  he  suggested. 
But  Bates  only  wept  or  smiled  in  a  maudHn  way. 
Presently  he  began  to  whine  for  his  five  dollars  in  a 
loud  tone,  and  angry,  yet  encouraged.  Utterly  gave 
him  his  easily  earned  fee  and  let  him  go. 

Now,  Utterly  determined,  he  would  shake  Wal- 
tonville.  He  would  go  to  Mrs.  Scott's  party  and  sit 
by  the  gilt  table  which  he  had  seen  through  the 
window,  and  shake  Waltonville  well. 


CHAPTER  IX 

MRS.  SCOTt's  party 

Mrs.  Scott  did  not  announce,  when  she  sent  Cora 
round  the  campus  with  her  invitations,  that  Mr. 
Utterly  was  to  be  her  guest.  She  was  not  certain, 
in  the  first  place,  that  he  would  remain  in  Walton- 
ville  —  what  kept  him  here  she  could  not  imagine. 
In  the  second  place,  she  preferred  to  behave  as 
though  distinguished  persons  were  her  daily  visitors. 
She  invited,  besides  the  three  Listers,  and  Thoma- 
sina  Davis,  who  had  that  afternoon  returned  from 
Philadelphia,  Dr.  Green  and  Professor  and  Mrs. 
Myers  of  the  German  Department.  The  college 
society  was  limited  in  summer  when  all  but  a  few  of 
the  faculty  sought  a  cooler  spot. 

She  liked  to  give  parties,  having  an  unalterable 
conviction  that  upon  her  depended  the  literary  and 
social  life  of  the  feminine  portion  of  Waltonville. 
Her  parties  were  not  like  Mrs.  Lister's,  to  which 
the  ladies  took  their  sewing  and  where  there  were 
many  good  things  to  eat.  She  set  her  astonished  and 
frightened  guests  down  to  little  tables,  furnished 
them  with  paper  and  pencil  and  required  them  to 
write,  beside  the  words  "Popular  Bishop"  or  "Lit- 
tle Misses'  Adoration"  or  "Curiosity  Depicter," 
the  names  of  the  famous  individuals  whose  initials 
were  thus  indicated  and  whose  qualities  or  achieve- 
ments were  thus  described.  In  planning  her  enter- 


102  BASIL  EVERMAN 

tainmerits  she  aMays  had  consideration  for  the 
shght  attainments  of  her  guests  and  never  in- 
cluded from  her  long  list  of  eminent  persons 
"Eulogizes  Antipodes"  or  "Eminently  Zealous" 
or  "Won  England's  Greatness." 

For  this  party  she  provided  no  entertainment. 
Mr.  Utterly  would  be  there,  and  during  her  impa- 
tient waiting  inside  her  screen  door  she  had  heard 
that  he  did  not  lack  words  or  a  will  to  use  them. 
Thomasina  Davis  could  talk  well  when  she  wished, 
and  there  were  Richard  and  Cora  to  sing  and  play. 
Moreover,  there  was  herself! 

Cora  put  on  one  of  her  prettiest  dresses,  and, 
parasol  and  little  bag  in  hand,  devoted  a  large  part 
of  the  morning  to  her  errand.  At  the  Myerses  she 
did  not  linger;  at  the  Listers  she  sat  long  enough  to 
be  certain  that  Richard  was  nowhere  about;  at 
Thomasina's  she  stayed  for  an  hour,  enjoying  the 
cool,  pleasant  parlor  and  the  quiet,  and  wishing  that 
Richard  would  come.  She  admired  the  chintz  cur- 
tains which  Thomasina  substituted  for  her  winter 
hangings,  she  liked  the  bare  floors  and  the  cool 
gray  walls  which  her  mother  thought  were  so  very 
homely  and  she  loved  to  listen  to  Thomasina's  voice. 
Thomasina  seemed  to  be  so  complete,  and  though 
she  gave  so  much  to  other  people,  she  seemed  to  be 
so  wholly  sufficient  for  herself.  It  must  be  dreadful, 
Cora  thought,  to  grow  old  and  not  to  have  been 
married,  even  though  one  had  everything  else,  good 
looks  and  a  lovely  house  and  beautiful  clothes  and 
perfect  independence.  Even  those  could  not  com- 
pensate for  being  an  old  maid.  But  Thomasina 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PARTY  103 

really  seemed  not  to  mind.  She  could,  Cora  believed, 
always  be  happy  with  her  books  and  her  music  and 
her  flowers.  One  always  felt,  when  one  was  leaving 
her  on  a  rainy  morning  after  one's  lesson,  when  the 
day  looked  interminable,  that  it  did  not  look  inter- 
minable to  her,  and  that  even  if  she  were  alone  she 
would  still  be  content.  Cora  wished  that  she  herself 
did  not  care  so  desperately  for  other  people,  espe- 
cially for  Richard  Lister.  She  had  hoped  in  vain  to 
see  him  this  morning  either  at  his  mother's  or  here. 
But  his  mother  said  that  he  would  come  to  the 
party  —  there  was  that  to  look  forward  to. 

Having  dispatched  her  messenger  and  having  set 
herself  and  her  maid  to  the  baking  of  cake  and  her 
husband  to  the  turning  of  the  ice-cream  freezer, 
Mrs.  Scott  was  relieved  to  see  that  the  stranger 
was  still  in  Waltonville  after  the  four-o'clock  train 
had  gone.  She  grew  more  and  more  elated  as  the 
hours  passed.  She  had  read  of  the  curious  and  inter- 
esting behavior  of  celebrated  persons  at  parties 
—  perhaps  she  would  henceforth  have  her  own 
anecdotes  to  relate.  She  had  asked  a  number  of 
persons  about  Basil  Everman,  including  her  black 
'Celie,  who  rolled  her  eyes  and  promised  to  inquire 
of  the  older  members  of  the  settlement.  She  re- 
ported that  'Manda  had  said  there  was  no  harm  in 
Marse  Basil  and  that  Virginia's  mother  had  said 
there  was  no  good  in  him.  He  did  n't  do  much  of 
anything  and  he  w^s  "pow'ful  good-lookin'." 

When  she  thought  of  Eleanor  Bent,  Mrs.  Scott's 
curiosity  grew  torturing  in  its  keenness.  Was 
Eleanor  trying  to  get  some  sort  of  literary  posi- 


104  BASIL  EVERMAN 

tion?  Dr.  Scott, 'when  questioned,  said  that  she 
was  the  best  pupil  he  had,  the  best  he  had  ever  had, 
he  beheved,  but  that  she  was  hardly  prepared  for 
any  literary  position. 

"Besides,  the  Bents  would  n't  know  of  any,"  said 
Mrs.  Scott. 

Dr.  Scott  was  on  the  last  lap  of  his  task.  Back 
and  arms  ached  and  perspiration  streamed  from  his 
body.  When  Mrs.  Scott  asked  in  sudden  uneasi- 
ness whether  she  had  better  provide  a  game  of 
authors  or  some  similar  entertainment,  he  looked 
up  at  her  with  the  expression  of  a  kindly,  inoffen- 
sive animal  prepared  for  sacrifice  and  entirely 
aware  of  the  intentions  of  his  master.  He  longed  for 
his  quiet  study,  longed  for  his  comfortable  chair, 
longed  for  his  English  magazine  with  a  new  article 
by  Pater.  The  prospect  of  an  evening  spent  in 
company  with  the  stranger  and  with  the  Myerses 
was  almost  intolerable.  Even  the  Listers  and  Dr. 
Green  and  Thomasina  Davis,  for  whom  he  had 
usually  the  friendliest  regard,  seemed  to  acquire 
unpleasant  qualities.  When  Mrs.  Scott  suggested 
his  hanging  Chinese  lanterns  from  the  roof  of  the 
porch,  he  rebelled  and  fled. 

Utterly '  arrived  early,  and  Mrs.  Scott,  to  her 
intense  annoyance,  was  not  quite  ready  to  receive 
him,  nor  was  Dr.  Scott.  While  she  struggled  with 
the  most  elaborate  of  her  dresses  and  her  husband 
labored  with  his  necktie,  Utterly  sat  on  the  front 
porch  with  Cora,  who  answered  him  in  monosylla- 
bles. Cora  was  always  ready  for  everything,  and  in  ^ 
her  quiet  way  was  equal  to  any  task  which  might 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PARTY  105 

fall  to  her  lot.  She  did  not  like  the  stranger,  and 
when  he  began  to  sing  the  praises  of  Eleanor  Bent's 
appearance  and  pretty  manners  and  bright  mind, 
she  felt  a  sharp  antagonism.  She  was  thankful  when 
her  mother  billowed  noisily  down  the  stairway,  her 
silk  skirts  rustling,  for  then  she  could  sit  chin  on 
hand  on  the  step  and  look  off  toward  the  dim  bulk 
of  the  Lister  house. 

As  Mrs.  Scott  reached  the  porch.  Professor  and 
Mrs.  Myers  came  into  sight.  Except  with  a  view 
to  providing  a  sufficient  number  for  her  party, 
Mrs.  Scott  had  no  special  reason  for  inviting  them. 
Professor  Myers  spoke  English  with  difficulty,  and 
his  wife  scarcely  spoke  at  all  in  any  language, 
and  never  upon  subjects  which  did  not  have  to  do 
with  the  nursery  or  the  kitchen.  Mrs.  Scott  felt 
that  neither  was  worthy  for  an  instant  of  the  bril- 
liant give-and-take  of  her  own  conversation. 

Beside  the  tall  stranger  Professor  Myers  looked 
like  a  fat  and  very  dull  cherub.  When  Utterly 
addressed  Mrs.  Myers,  with  what  was  to  Mrs. 
Scott  delightful  courtesy,  she  looked  upon  his  over- 
tures with  an  emotion  which  was  plainly  alarm. 
She  answered  him  only  with  a  shake  of  the  head 
and  a  faint  smile  which  to  Mrs.  Scott  savored  of 
imbecility. 

Before  Mrs.  Scott  could  "save  him,"  as  she 
phrased  it,  from  the  Myerses,  the  Listers  had  come. 
At  sight  of  Utterly  in  the  midst  of  her  friends,  Mrs. 
Lister  gave  a  little  gasp  and  tightened  her  grasp 
on  her  husband's  arm. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  home,  mother?"  asked 


106  BASIL  EVERIVIAN 

Dr.  Lister,  himself  annoyed.  "I'll  make  excuses  for 
you,  and  Richard  and  I  will  go  on." 

"What's  the  matter?"  asked  Richard,  from  the 
other  side  of  his  mother.  Thus  Mrs.  Lister  liked  to 
walk  and  sit  and  live,  beside  and  close  to  the  two 
whom  she  loved. 

"Nothing  is  the  matter,"  said  she  in  an  even 
tone,  and,  more  erect  than  ever,  she  mounted  the 
steps  and  replied  to  Mrs.  Scott's  greetings.  She  se- 
lected a  chair  as  far  from  Mr.  Utterly  as  possible. 
He,  she  was  sure,  looked  sorry  to  see  her.  Had  he 
meant  to  conduct  a  sort  of  symposium  about  Basil  .^ 
But  she  had  come  in  the  nick  of  time  and  she 
would  stay  and  if  necessary  outstay  him. 

When  Thomasina  Davis  arrived  in  her  soft, 
flowing  gray  dress  with  her  great  red  fan  in  her 
hand.  Utterly  almost  gave  audible  expression  to  his 
favorite  "By  Jove!"  Here  was,  at  last,  he  said 
to  himself,  a  real  person,  here  was  some  one  with 
spirit  and  sense,  and,  unless  he  read  all  signs 
wrongly,  with  a  mind.  There  was  a  little  stir  among 
Mrs.  Scott's  guests.  Mrs.  Lister's  face  lost  its  stiff 
look  as  she  cried,  "Why,  Thomasina,  when  did 
you  come  back.'^"  Dr.  Scott's  face  glowed,  and 
Richard  and  Cora  sprang  up  from  the  step  and 
escorted  her  in,  one  on  each  side. 

Thomasina  had  a  singularly  bright  glance  and  a 
singularly  winning  smile.  She  bestowed  them  both 
upon  the  tall  stranger  who  greeted  her  with  the 
lowest  of  bows.  She  wondered  where  Mrs.  Scott  had 
found  this  citizen  of  the  world.  She  did  not  accept 
the  offer  of  his  chair,  but  swept  back  to  sit  by  Mrs. 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PARTY  107 

Lister  and  to  bestow  upon  Mrs.  Myers  just  as 
beaming  a  smile.  Once  established  she  talked  to 
Mrs.  Myers  about  her  babies.  She  spoke  English 
and  Mrs.  Myers  German,  but  there  was  perfect 
understanding  between  them. 

Dr.  Green  was  the  only  guest  who  had  not  ar- 
rived. He  had  no  patients  at  this  hour;  indeed,  he 
sat  deliberately  waiting  until  it  drew  near  the  time 
when  Waltonville  customarily  served  its  ice-cream. 
Upon  arriving  he  would  take  a  sardonic  delight 
in  complimenting  Dr.  Scott  upon  the  excellence  of 
his  product.  He  believed  that  every  married  man 
had  his  symbol  of  subjection,  every  Hercules  his 
distaff.  Dr.  Scott's  was  an  ice-cream  freezer.  His 
failure  to  arrive  on  time  did  not  disturb  any  one, 
least  of  all  his  hostess.  She  estabUshed  herself 
beside  Utterly  and  looked  up  at  him  with  an  ex- 
pression which  had  been  used  long  ago  with  tell- 
ing effect  upon  Dr.  Scott,  but  which  was  now 
reserved  for  persons  of  greater  brilliancy  and 
promise. 

She  asked  leading  questions,  putting  into  prac- 
tice for  once  the  precept  that  it  is  more  polite  to  let 
others  talk  than  to  talk  one's  self.  What  was  be- 
ing done  in  Boston  in  a  literary  way?  She  looked 
amazed,  yet  became  immediately  sympathetic 
when  Utterly  laughed  at  Boston.  Such  iconoclasm 
was  daring  and  delightful.  What,  then,  was  doing 
in  New  York?  Utterly  answered  at  length.  As  he 
had  discoursed  to  Eleanor  Bent,  so  he  now  dis- 
coursed to  Mrs.  Scott  and  her  guests,  especially  to 
Thomasina  Davis.  American  Uterature,  if  such  a 


108  BASIL  EVERMAN 

thing  as  American  literature  could  be  said  to  exist, 
was  in  a  parlous  state.  America  had  never  done 
much  of  importance.  There  were,  of  course,  Poe  and 
Whitman,  but  — 

"But  Longfellow!"  cried  Mrs.  Scott. 

Utterly  laughed. 

"A  few  sonnets!  You  don't  take  Longfellow  seri- 
ously, my  dear  Mrs.  Scott." 

Up  to  this  moment  Mrs.  Scott  had  taken  Long- 
fellow very  seriously  indeed. 

"And  Bryant!  And  Whittier!"  she  cried  in  more 
explosive  tones.  "'Thanatopsis,'  Mr.  Utterly!  And 
^Snow-Bound' !" 

"The  feeble  expression  of  a  little  talent  at  peace 
with  itself  and  the  world." 

"Oh,  naughty,  naughty!"  cried  Mrs.  Scott,  play- 
fully. "You  astonish  me!"  She  looked  about  at  her 
neighbors  as  if  to  say,  "Oh,  see  what  I've  got!" 

No  one  else  made  any  response.  If  silence  is  a 
tribute  to  eloquence  and  a  plea  for  further  utterance. 
Utterly  was  thoroughly  justified  in  going  on.  He 
could  see  the  shimmer  of  Thomasina's  beautiful 
dress,  the  slow  waving  to  and  fro  of  her  great  fan, 
and  once  or  twice  the  gleam  of  her  bright  eyes.  He 
fancied  that  Thomasina  hung  upon  his  words. 
He  sought  to  surpass  himself,  and  little  by  little 
he  shed  his  veneer  of  fine  manners.  To  the  mouth 
agape  beside  him  he  brought  large  mouthfuls. 
There  were  anecdotes  of  celebrated  writers,  true 
and  untrue,  pleasant  and  unpleasant,  new  and 
ancient,  widely  circulated  or  unknown,  published 
and  sometimes  not  fit  for  publication.  This  man, 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PARTY  109 

the  author  of  pecuHarly  spiritual  essays  and  exhor- 
tations, was  in  private  life  peculiarly  unspiritual 
and  evil.  For  a  day  each  week  his  long-suffering 
wife  imprisoned  him  in  a  room  and  the  next  day 
herself  carried  the  products  of  his  sober  meditation 
to  the  publishers  so  that  she  and  her  children  might 
live.  The  last  chapters  of  Lawrence  Miller's  brilliant 
novel  had  been  written  in  prison.  Edward  Dilling- 
ham did  not  dare  to  leave  a  little  Western  town 
where,  unknown,  he  had  found  for  many  years  a 
haven. 

But  the  moral  state  of  American  writers  was,  as 
Utterly  pictured  it,  nothing  to  compare  with  that 
of  literary  men  abroad.  He  wandered  now  into  the 
past  and  demolished  famous  reputations,  as  sacred 
in  Waltonville  as  those  of  Biblical  heroes  and 
heroines. 

Mrs.  Scott  was  enchanted.  Trying  with  all  her 
might  to  impress  upon  her  tenacious  memory  each 
incident,  each  smart  expression,  she  paid  small 
heed  to  her  other  guests,  and  did  not  observe  that 
upon  Dr.  Lister's  countenance  astonishment  strug- 
gled with  weariness,  that  Professor  Myers  was  half 
and  Mrs.  Myers  wholly  asleep,  and  that  Thoma- 
sina  was  perfectly  silent  and  that  therefore  she 
neither  admired  nor  agreed. 

On  the  step  Cora  and  Richard  exchanged  an 
occasional  whisper,  and  once  or  twice  Richard 
turned  an  impertinently  inquiring  face  toward  the 
speaker.  Cora  was  amused  and  made  no  effort  to 
restrain  him. 

It  became  at  last  evident  to  Mrs.  Scott  that  her 


110  BASIL  EVERMAN 

guest  was  not  reteiving  that  attention  which  his 
parts  deserved.  Professor  Myers,  awaking  as  if 
from  a  dream,  sat  up  in  his  chair  with  a  loud  excla- 
mation. 

"It  is  true,  there  is  nothing  worth  in  American 
literature,  nothing!" 

Utterly  had  left  that  subject  so  far  behind  that 
Professor  Myers's  inattention  was  clear  even  to 
Mrs.  Scott.  Thus  recalled  to  the  fact  that  all  were 
not  able  to  enjoy  the  mental  food  which  she  found 
palatable,  she  summoned  Cora  and  Richard  to  the 
piano,  and  they  obeyed  promptly.  Miss  Thomasina 
following  after.  Utterly  at  once  left  his  place  on  the 
porch  and  went  in  to  sit  beside  Thomasina  on  the 
parlor  sofa. 

Cora  sang  in  a  pretty  voice  to  Richard's  accom- 
paniment. Once  or  twice  he  corrected  her  in  his 
commanding  young  way  and  she  obeyed  smilingly 
and  gratefully.  To  Thomasina  the  state  of  Cora's 
mind  was  as  plain  as  the  blush  on  her  cheek. 

Then  the  two  played  furiously  together.  The 
piano  was  a  generation  younger  than  the  Lister 
piano,  but  it  had  long  since  passed  its  first  youth. 
As  a  demonstration  of  digital  agility  and  of  power 
to  make  a  loud  noise,  the  performance  was  a  suc- 
cess; otherwise  it  was  worse  than  a  failure.  Cora 
glanced  out  of  the  corner  of  her  eye  at  Richard. 
Upon  his  face  was  an  expression  of  excitement.  It 
frightened  her  in  a  vague  way,  and  she  was  thank- 
ful when  Thomasina  called  a  gentle  "Quietly, 
children!" 

Utterly  bent  toward  Thomasina. 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PARTY  111 

"Have  you  lived  long  in  Walton ville,  Miss 
Davis?" 

"All  my  life."  Thomasina  answered  without  that 
pleasant  enthusiasm  inciting  to  further  talk  which 
was  one  of  her  chief  charms.  She  liked  this  stranger 
less  and  less.  "That  is  about  forty-five  years." 

Utterly  was  about  to  express  a  polite  doubt  of 
Thomasina's  having  lived  anywhere  that  long,  but 
thought  better  of  it. 

"It  is  a  very  interesting  town,  is  n't  it?" 

"Very,"  answered  Thomasina  shortly. 

"One  feels  that  the  lives  spent  here  must  be 
happy." 

"Not  necessarily.  The  average  of  happiness  is 
probably  no  higher  here  than  elsewhere.  People 
carry  the  material  of  happiness  in  their  hearts." 

Utterly  listened  a  little  impatiently.  It  was  a 
period  when  abstract  opinions  fell  oftener  from  the 
lips  of  men  than  of  women. 

"Did  you  ever  know  Basil  Everman?"  he  asked. 

Thomasina  laid  her  crimson  fan  across  her  knees. 
The  children  came  suddenly  to  a  climax  and  some- 
what boisterously,  went  to  bring  in  the  refreshments 
provided  by  Mrs.  Scott,  the  sound  of  voices  from 
the  porch  had  sunk  to  a  gentle  murmur.  Into 
Thomasina's  face  came  a  bewildered  expression; 
she  looked  at  the  same  time  incredulous,  and  in- 
tensely desirous  of  hearing  more. 

"Did  I  know  Basil  Everman?"  She  repeated  the 
question  as  though  she  were  trying  to  make  herself 
believe  that  it  had  really  been  uttered. 

"Yes,"  said  Utterly,  "Basil  Everman." 


112  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"I  knew  him  an  his  hfe." 

"Will  you  tell  me  about  him?" 

"Tell  you  what  about  him?" 

"Tell  me  what  he  looked  like,  how  he  spoke  and 
walked  —  all  your  impressions  of  him." 

Thomasina  lifted  her  fan  and  held  it  spread  out 
against  her  breast  as  though  it  were  a  shield.  She 
could  not  quite  trust  the  stranger,  though  he  had 
uttered  a  magic  name. 

"What  do  you  know  about  him?" 

"He  published  some  anonymous  work  in  'Wil- 
lard's  Magazine'  and  we  are  anxious  to  learn 
everything  we  can  about  his  history." 

"  Basil  Everman ! "  said  Thomasina  again,  slowly. 
Then  the  words  came  rapidly,  as  rapidly  as  she 
could  speak.  "How  he  looked?  He  was  tall  and  very 
slender.  I  should  say  his  most  remarkable  feature 
was  his  eyes.  They  were  gray  with  flecks  of  black 
in  them.  They  seemed  almost  to  give  out  light. 
Webster's  eyes  are  said  to  have  had  that  effect. 
If  you  had  ever  seen  Basil,  you  would  know  what 
that  meant.  He  was  extraordinarily  quick  of  mind 
and  speech  and  motion.  Sometimes,  as  a  boy,  he 
seemed  to  give  an  impression  of  actual  flight.  He 
had  mentally  also  the  gift  of  wings.  He  seemed  to 
live  in  a  different  world,  to  have  deeper  emotions 
and  more  vivid  mental  experiences  than  the  rest 
of  mankind.  He  was  the  most  radiant  person  I  ever 
knew  —  I  think  that  is  the  best  word  for  him.  He 
was  a  creature  of  great  promise.  He  — " 

Utterly  turned  his  head  to  follow  the  direction 
of  Thomasina's  gaze,  which  seemed  to  expand  as 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PAETY  113 

her  speech  ceased.  He  could  not  see  the  white, 
startled  face  of  Mrs.  Lister,  cameo-like,  against  the 
black  foliage  of  the  honeysuckle  vines.  It  was  plain 
to  Thomasina  that  what  she  was  saying  gave  Mrs. 
Lister  distress.  Moreover,  she  remembered,  now 
that  her  first  bewilderment  had  passed,  the  stran- 
ger's astonishing  and  ill-natured  gossip. 

"And  then.^"  Utterly  was  sure  of  his  quarry  at 
last. 

"There  isn't  much  more."  From  Thomasina's 
voice  the  life  had  gone.  "He  died  when  he  was  a 
very  young  man." 

Utterly  looked  about  him  furiously.  He  did  not 
know  what  had  stopped  Thomasina,  but,  moved 
either  from  within  or  without,  she  had  paused. 
He  raised  his  voice  so  that  Dr.  Green,  approach- 
ing, heard  him  many  yards  away. 

"Basil  Everman  was  a  great  writer,"  he  declared 
for  Mrs.  Lister's  benefit.  "Worth  a  dozen  Long- 
fellows  and  Bryants  and  Whittiers.  The  world  has 
a  right  to  know  all  about  him,  and  those  who  keep 
back  the  facts  of  his  life  are  cheating  him  of  the 
fame  which  he  deserves,  they  are  willfully  and  in- 
tentionally doing  him  an  injury.  It  is  a  strange 
thing  that  here  in  this  college  community,  where 
one  would  expect  an  interest  in  literature,  nobody 
is  interested  or  can  tell  anything  or  will  tell  any- 
thing about  this  man.  I  would  give,"  cried  Utterly 
in  conclusion,  "a  thousand  dollars  for  one  of  his 
stories!" 

Mrs.  Scott  said  "Gracious  alive!"  Then  Dr. 
Green  began  to  talk  in  a  loud  voice  about  nothing. 


114  BASIL  EVERMAN 

He  saw  Mrs.  Lister's  white,  shocked  face  and 
watched  a  Httle  uneasily  the  rapid  pulse  in  her 
neck.  He  continued  to  talk  until  Richard  and  Cora 
had  finished  passing  the  ice-cream  and  cake.  The 
stranger  seemed  to  be  drowned  by  his  words. 

Then  every  one  sat  dully.  Utterly  said  no  more. 
Mrs.  Lister  waited  for  him  to  go.  He  waited  for 
Thomasina  and  she  waited  for  Mrs.  Lister.  Finally 
Mrs.  Myers  rose,  still  half  asleep.  Thomasina  found 
Utterly  at  her  side. 

"May  I  come  to  see  you  to-morrow  morning?" 
•     "Yes." 

"  Would  you  like  to  see  Basil  Everman's  stories?  '* 

"Yes." 

"I'd  quite  forgotten  about  Basil  Everman,"  said 
Dr.  Green  as  he  and  Thomasina  passed  through 
the  campus  gate.  "He  was  Mrs.  Lister's  brother 
and  he  has  been  dead  for  many  years,  has  n't  he?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  you  know  that  he  was  a  writer?" 

"Yes." 

"And  that  he  pubHshed  what  he  wrote?" 

"No." 

"I  think  he  had  just  gone  away  when  I  entered 
college.  This  man  Utterly  was  at  Commencement. 
I  never  saw  a  man  I  liked  less.  What  did  you  do 
while  you  were  away?" 

"I  bought  some  clothes  and  visited  an  old  friend 
and  selected  a  piano,  a  very  fine  piano  for  Eleanor 
Bent." 

"She  plays  well,  does  n't  she?" 

"Yes,  but  not  as  well  as  Richard  Lister."  In  the 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PARTY  115 

darkness  Thomasina  turned  upon  Dr.  Green  an 
inquiring  glance.  "It  is  the  finest  piano  in  the 
county." 

Dr.  Green  did  not  seem  interested  in  Eleanor 
Bent's  piano.  **This  man  said  he  found  some  stories 
of  Basil  Everman's;  was  n't  that  it?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  Basil  Everman  an  extraordinary  person?" 

Thomasina  stumbled  a  little  on  the  brick  pave- 
ment whose  roughnesses  she  should  have  known 
thoroughly. 

"There  have  been  two  persons  in  Walton ville  in 
fifty  years  who  have  been  ambitious,"  said  she 
grimly.  "I  was  one,  and  Basil  Everman  was  the 
other.  In  addition  to  his  ambition,  Basil  had  genius. 
He  could  have  done  anything.  He  is  dead,  he  died 
before  he  had  really  lived.  And  here  am  I,  burning 
to  the  socket!" 

Dr.  Green  looked  at  Thomasina  in  amazement. 
They  had  traversed  the  flag  walk  and  had  come  to 
her  broad  doorstone  upon  which  a  light  from  within 
shone  dimly.  It  was  evident  that  she  was  deeply 
stirred.  Dr.  Green  was  not  in  the  habit  of  giving 
much  thought  to  the  problems  of  other  people,  and 
now  it  came  upon  him  with  a  shock  that  she  could 
hardly  have  arrived  at  the  peaceful  haven  in  which 
she  seemed  to  spend  her  days  without  some  sort 
of  voyage  to  reach  it.  Disappointed  ambition  was 
enough  to  chasten  any  one,  thought  Dr.  Green,  and 
Dr.  Green  knew. 

"You  mean  you  would  like  to  have  been  a  musi- 
cian?" 


116  BASIL  EVERMAN 

i 

Thomasina  answered  cheerfully,  already  ashamed 
of  herself. 

"Yes,"  she  said;  "that  is  what  I  mean.  Thank 
you  for  seeing  me  safely  home." 

Dr.  Green  bade  her  good-night,  and  went  swiftly 
out  the  flag  walk.  Basil  Everman's  step  could  have 
been  no  more  rapid  or  more  light. 

Inside  her  door  Thomasina  stripped  from  head 
and  shoulders  the  filmy  lace  with  which  she  had 
covered  them.  Then  she  went  into  her  parlor  and 
turned  out  the  light  and  opened  a  long  French  door 
at  the  back  of  the  room  and  sat  down  in  a  deep 
chair  just  inside  it  and  looked  out  upon  her  garden. 
The  garden  was  shut  in  by  a  high  wall;  in  the  cen- 
ter stood  a  pair  of  old,  low-spreading  apple  trees; 
round  its  edge  ran  a  flag  walk,  and  between  the 
wall  and  the  walk  were  beds  in  which  grew  all  man- 
ner of  sweet  flowers.  Dr.  Scott,  when  he  first  saw 
it,  had  said  "San  Marco!"  and  Thomasina's  eyes 
had  glowed. 

"It  has  required  the  most  Herculean  of  labors 
to  establish  it  and  the  greatest  Niagaras  of  water. 
You  are  the  first  human  being  who  has  known  what 
I  have  tried  to  do.  You  have  been  there,  of  course .f^" 

"No,"  answered  Dr.  Scott,  sadly,  "I  have  never 
been  there." 

Now  the  moon  floated  over  its  scented  loveliness. 
There  was  neither  sound  nor  motion  except  that  of 
a  moth,  huge  and  heavy-winged.  Thomasina  herself 
sat  perfectly  still,  her  hands  folded  in  her  lap.  Pres- 
ently she  raised  them,  one  to  each  burning  cheek. 

"What  is  to  come  of  this.^"  said  she  aloud. 


MRS.  SCOTT'S  PARTY  117 

After  a  while  she  rose  and  stepped  out  into  the 
garden  and  began  to  pace  up  and  down.  An  hour 
later,  when  even  Mrs.  Scott  was  asleep,  Thomasina 
was  still  pacing  up  and  down. 

Dr.  and  Mrs.  Lister  did  not  cross  the  campus 
directly,  but  went  round  by  one  of  the  paths,  since 
a  direct  course  would  have  brought  upon  them  the 
company  of  the  Myerses.  Mrs.  Lister  was  trembling; 
her  husband  felt  her  lean  more  and  more  heavily 
upon  him. 

"Mother,"  said  he  impatiently,  "what  is  the 
matter.^  What  is  it  that  troubles  you?" 

Mrs.  Lister  did  not  answer  until  they  had  reached 
the  porch. 

"They  dare  not  drag  poor  Basil  from  his  grave! 
I  can't  have  it!  It  can't  be!" 

"But  is  there  anything  against  Basil .^^  Did  he 
commit  any  crime?  Did  he  wrong  any  one?  This 
young  man  is  ill-bred,  but  he  is  evidently  sincere 
in  his  admiration.  What  is  there  to  fear?  What  can 
be  found  out?" 

Mrs.  Lister  answered  hesitatingly,  choosing  her 
words. 

"He  did  not  get  on  with  my  father.  He  —  he 
went  away.  He  was  always  strange  —  we  loved 
him  dearly.  I  —  oh,  Thomas,  he  went  away  in 
anger  and  we  could  n't  find  him;  we  never  saw  him 
or  heard  of  him  till  he  was  dead.  No  one  knew  that 
he  was  alienated  from  us.  I  cannot  endure  it  that 
any  one  should  know!" 

Then  Richard  came  up  on  the  porch. 

"Little  Cora  might  have  amounted  to  something 


118  pASIL  EVERMAN 

with  another  mother,"  said  he.  "Who  is  this  man 
Utterly?  He  sat  there  beside  Miss  Thomasina  and 
rattled  like  a  dry  gourd  full  of  seeds.  What  is  his 
business  here?" 

Dr.  Lister  remembered  that  Richard  had  been 
out  of  the  room  when  Utterly  had  said  his  say  about 
Basil  Everman.  Mrs.  Lister  found  in  his  absence 
one  cause  for  thankfulness.  She  answered  with  an 
evasion  and  the  three  went  into  the  house. 


CHAPTER  X 

"  MY  BROTHER  BASIL  WAS  DIFFERENT! " 

In  the  morning  Utterly  sought  Thomasina  early. 
He  looked  about  her  beautiful  room  and  out  into 
the  quiet  garden  and  his  hopes  rose.  Here  was  at- 
mosphere! If  he  had  only  seen  Miss  Davis  first, 
he  might  have  saved  a  great  deal  of  time.  He  had 
accounted  to  himself  for  her  sudden  silence  the 
evening  before.  Mrs.  Lister  was  within  hearing  and 
her  morbid  attitude  toward  the  memory  of  her 
brother  was  doubtless  known  to  her  friends.  He 
had  brought  with  him  the  copies  of  "Willard's 
Magazine"  and  had  laid  them  on  the  table  beside 
him. 

Thomasina,  cool  and  pretty  in  a  white  dress,  sat 
in  a  winged  chair  inside  her  garden  door  and  rested 
her  slippered  feet  on  a  footstool.  The  excitement 
had  disappeared  from  her  brown  eyes,  and  she  had 
evidently  slept  in  the  few  hours  which  she  had 
allowed  herself. 

Utterly,  who  arrived  with  such  high  hopes,  went 
away  in  anger.  Thomasina  either  would  or  could 
tell  him  nothing;  insisted,  indeed,  that  there  was 
nothing  to  tell. 

"He  was  brighter  than  other  people  and  he  did 
things  in  a  different  way  —  if  Mrs.  Scott  really 
thinks  he  was  '  wild '  as  you  say,  that  is  the  source 
of  her  impression.  But  she  is  a  newcomer,  and — '* 


120  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Thomasina  hesitated,  flushed,  and  then  said  exactly 
what  she  had  determined  not  to  say  —  "if  it  were 
not. for  her  husband's  position  she  would  be  entirely 
outside  the  circle  in  which  Basil  Everman  moved." 

"But  Mrs.  Lister  does  not  speak  of  him  frankly; 
there's  no  gainsaying  that!" 

"I  dare  say  she  didn't  approve  of  everything 
he  said  or  did.  Few  sisters  do  wholly  approve  of 
their  brothers.  The  style  of  Basil's  writing  would 
probably  not  have  been  appreciated  by  one  brought 
up  on  Maria  Edgeworth.  But  she  loved  him  with 
her  whole  soul.  Did  you  ever  read  Maria  Edgeworth, 
Mr.  Utterly?  Do  you  know  about  '  Rosamund  and 
the  Purple  Jar'?" 

Utterly  brushed  Maria  Edgeworth  aside.  He  was 
certain  that  while  Mrs.  Lister  had  risen  up  like  a 
stone  wall  against  him,  this  person  was  laughing 
at  him. 

"Did  Basil  Everman  come  here?" 

"A  thousand  times.  I  chased  him  under  the  piano 
usually.  He  was  a  very  dignified,  polite  little  boy, 
and  I  was  a  very  undignified  and  impolite  little  girl." 

"Miss  Davis — "  Utterly  moved  impatiently  in 
his  chair  —  "I  have  journeyed  all  the  way  from 
New  York  to  be  told  that  this  really  extraordinary 
young  man,  of  whom  this  whole  community  ought 
to  be  proud,  was  chased  round  the  leg  of  the  piano 
and  that  he  had  gray  eyes.  What  do  you  suppose 
would  become  of  literary  biography  or  of  any  sort 
of  biography  if  all  the  relatives  and  friends  of  tal- 
ented men  acted  as  you  do?" 

"I  dare  say  it  would  be  greatly  improved,"  said 


MY  BROTHER  BASIL  WAS  DIFFERENT!     121 

Thomasina,  smiling.  "I  dare  say  many  of  the  facts 
which  make  biographies  interesting  are  inventions." 

The  nearer  Utterly  approached  the  railroad  sta- 
tion and  the  farther  the  B.  &  N.  train  drew  him 
from  Waltonviile,  the  more  certain  did  he  become 
that  he  had  been  cheated. 

During  the  days  following  his  visit,  Mrs.  Lister 
told  her  husband  more  about  Basil.  The  facts  came 
out  gradually.  To  Dr.  Lister  the  revelation  was 
almost  incredible.  It  was  not  that  the  facts  were 
so  startling,  but  that  Mary  Alcestis  could  have 
remained  silent  all  these  years  of  their  married  life : 
she  who  was  so  open,  so  confiding,  so  dependent 
upon  him  for  advice  and  sympathy  in  everything. 

As  she  proceeded  with  her  story,  he  was  still  more 
astonished  at  her  amazing  conclusions. 

"Basil  was  different  from  other  children  even 
when  he  was  a  little  boy.  I  remember  that  my 
mother  said  that  he  used  to  require  less  sleep  than 
other  children,  and  that  when  she  would  go  to  his 
crib,  she  would  find  him  lying  awake  and  staring 
in  the  strangest  way  at  nothing.  She  used  to  be 
afraid  when  he  was  a  little  boy  that  he  might  go 
blind,  he  looked  at  her  so  steadily.  He  never  cried 
loudly  like  other  children  when  he  was  tired  or  hun- 
gry, but  sat  with  great  tears  rolling  down  his  cheeks. 
Even  as  a  little  boy  he  liked  to  be  alone.  He  was 
forever  disappearing  and  being  found  in  queer 
places,  such  as  a  pew  in  the  college  church  in  the 
dark.  Sometimes  he  would  sit  alone  in  the  dark 
tank  room  in  the  third  story.  He  said  he  had 
*  strange  thoughts'  there. 


122  WiSlL  EVERM.\N 

"As  he  grew  older,  he  would  not  accommodate 
himself  to  the  ways  of  the  household,  would  not 
come  to  meals  regularly.  He  did  n't  seem  to  care 
whether  he  ate  or  not.  He  did  n't  come  to  break- 
fast on  time,  and  he  would  not  go  to  bed  at  the 
proper  hour.  Then  my  father  said  he  could  not  have 
any  breakfast,  and  my  father  took  his  lamp  away 
at  nine  o'clock. 

"He  would  not  study  the  subjects  which  were 
assigned  to  him.  It  was  almost  intolerable  to  my 
father  as  president  of  the  college.  He  would  not 
even  open  his  mathematics.  He  said  life  was  too 
short.  I  believe  that  was  the  only  time  he  ever  said 
anything  in  answer  to  my  father.  He  took  punish- 
ment without  even  crying  out." 

"Punishment!"  repeated  Dr.  Lister. 

Mrs.  Lister  gasped.  "  Once  or  twice  my  father 
punished  him  —  corporally. 

"Once  he  went  away  on  a  walking  trip  to  the 
Ragged  Mountains  alone.  We  did  n't  know  where 
he  had  gone,  and  when  people  asked  where  he  was, 
we  had  to  —  to  invent.  My  father  used  to  try  to 
pretend  that  it  made  no  difference,  that  he  had  done 
his  best  and  that  God  would  not  hold  him  respon- 
sible. But  I  used  to  hear  him  at  his  window  at  night. 
He  used  to  pray  there. 

"Basil  used  to  go  down  and  sit  at  the  edge  of  the 
colored  settlement  and  hear  them  sing.  It  was  as 
though  he  let  himself  dwell  on  all  evil  things." 

"Oh,  mother,  not  evil  things!"  protested  Dr. 
Lister. 

"Some  of  the  songs  were  evil.  You  could  hear 


MY  BROTHER  BASIL  WAS  DIFFERENT!     123 

him  singing  them  afterwards  in  his  room.  They 
were  songs  that  made  you  shiver." 

"Did  he  ever  drink  or  gamble,  or  do  anything  of 
that  kind?" 

"I  don't  know  certainly.  My  father  kept  some 
things  from  me.  I  know,  though,  that  my  father 
fetched  him  from  the  tavern  once.  He  used  to  sing 
sometimes  as  he  came  home.  You  could  hear  him 
coming  from  far  away." 

"But,  mother,  surely  you  can  see  in  'Bitter 
Bread'  why  he  went  walking  to  the  Ragged  Moun- 
tains! He  wanted  new  impressions,  different  im- 
pressions from  those  of  humdrum  people.  Did  you 
never  suspect  that  he  was  trying  to  write?  Did  you 
never  see  anything  he  wrote?  Did  n't  your  father 
realize  that  here  was  no  ordinary  boy,  here  no 
ordinary  talent?" 

"My  father  found  one  of  his  stories  and  read  it. 
It  was  then  that  he  told  Basil  that  he  could  not 
stay  if  he  continued  in  his  course.  My  father  really 
did  n't  mean  that  he  was  to  go  away,  but  he  took 
him  at  his  word.  Then  we  tried  to  find  him  again 
and  again.  His  going  away  killed  my  father.  All 
the  clues  led  nowhere.  We  did  n't  hear  anything 
about  him  till  he  was  dead  and  buried.  Then  my 
father  died."  Mrs.  Lister  became  excited.  "I  feel 
as  though  it  would  kill  me.  I  thought  at  the  time 
I  could  n't  live.  Everything  came  at  once." 

"But,  mother,  it  is  all  so  long  ago!" 

"It  is  all  as  plain  and  dreadful  as  though  it  were 
yesterday.  I  have  been  afraid  for  twenty  years  that 
people  would  find  out  about  Basil,  that  they  would 


124  l^ASJL  EVERMAN 

put  this  and  that  together.  I  have  thought  of 
Mrs.  Scott  finding  it  out  and  of  how  she  would 
talk  and  talk  and  of  all  the  tradespeople  knowing, 
and—" 

"But,  my  darling,  what  could  they  know?" 

Mrs.  Lister  seemed  suddenly  to  repent  her  vehe- 
mence. 

''That  he  was  alienated  from  us,"  said  she. 
"Isn't  that  enough.?  And  I  shall  never  get  over 
grieving  for  him.  If  he  had  done  as  my  father  wished 
he  might  have  been  here  with  us  yet,  and  not  be 
lying  in  his  grave ! " 

"But  he  did  live  intensely.  He  probably  got  more 
happiness  out  of  a  day  than  ordinary  mortals  get 
out  of  a  month.  And  you  must  learn  not  to  grieve. 
It's  unnatural.  You  have  Richard  and  all  your 
friends  —  and  me ! " 

Mrs.  Lister  was  slow  to  take  comfort.  For  sev- 
eral days  she  did  little  but  wander  round  the  quiet 
house.  It  dawned  upon  her  presently  that  the  house 
was  unusually  quiet  and  that  she  had  seen  little  of 
Richard  since  Commencement.  In  the  thought  of 
him  she  found  at  last  her  accustomed  consolation. 
He  was  normal;  he  would  give  her  no  hours  of  misery 
as  Basil  had.  He  would  do  just  what  she  wanted 
him  to  do  —  he  was  darling  —  even  to  think  of  him 
healed. 

But  where  was  Richard.?  Probably  at  Thoma- 
sina's.  Mrs.  Lister  put  on  her  bonnet  and  walked 
thither. 

Richard  was  not  there,  and  Thomasina  in  her 
trying  way  would  talk  of  nothing  but  his  musical 


MY  BROTHER  BASIL  WAS  DIFFERENT!     125 

talent.  She  had  an  annoying  fashion  of  assuming 
that  people  agreed  with  her.  When  Mrs.  Lister 
reached  home,  Richard  had  not  come. 

During  the  absence  of  his  wife,  Dr.  Lister  had 
visited  the  third  story  and  looked  through  some  of 
Basil's  belongings.  In  the  bottom  of  his  little  trunk 
lay  his  books,  his  tiny  Euripides  and  his  iEschylus 
with  their  poor  print  and  their  many  notes.  How 
strange  it  was  to  think  of  these  books  as  the  pocket 
companions  of  a  young  man!  How  mad  to  pick 
quarrels  with  any  young  man  who  went  thus  com- 
panioned ! 

The  old  bureau  in  which  Mrs.  Lister  kept  Basil's 
clothing  was  locked.  From  it  came  still  a  faint, 
indeterminate,  sickening  odor  of  disinfectants,  and 
more  faintly  still  that  of  tobacco.  In  the  corner 
stood  his  stick,  that  stick  which  he  had  doubtless 
carried  with  him  into  the  Ragged  Mountains.  Dr. 
Lister  saw  him  suddenly,  his  cane  held  aloft  like  a 
banner,  his  eyes  shining.  He  felt  a  chilling  sensation 
along  his  spine.  Then  he  smiled.  Thus  traditions 
of  haunted  rooms  were  established.  The  boy  was 
dead,  dead.  Dr.  Lister  said  the  word  aloud.  The 
shrine  was  empty,  deserted,  forlorn. 

For  a  long  time  he  sat  by  the  window  in  the  dim, 
hot  room.  He  meant  to  shake  ofip  the  vague,  un- 
canny sensations  which  he  felt;  he  said  to  himself 
that  he  was  too  sober  and  too  old  for  any  such  non- 
sense as  this. 

But  while  he  sat  still,  his  eyes  now  on  the  smooth 
white  bed,  now  on  a  faded  picture  of  Basil's  mother 
above  the  bed,  now  on  the  bureau  with  its  linen 


126  pASIL  EVERMAN 

cover  and  its  beadwork  pincushion,  his  heart  began 
to  throb.  He  remembered  a  picture  of  Basil  some- 
where in  the  house,  a  picture  brighter,  younger, 
less  severe  than  the  one  in  the  family  album;  he 
must  ask  Mary  Alcestis  to  find  it  for  him.  He  saw 
the  boy,  eager,  alert,  with  a  sort  of  strangeness 
about  him  as  his  sister  had  said,  the  unnatural 
product  of  this  puritanic  household  in  which  he 
was  set  to  grow.  He  did  not  like  regular  meals  — 
even  Dr.  Lister  had  hated  them  in  his  youth.  He 
had  not  liked  to  go  to  bed  when  other  people  went 
or  to  get  up  when  they  got  up.  Did  any  boy  ever 
like  it  in  the  history  of  the  world.?  His  father  had 
once  or  twice  punished  him  —  "corporally."  A 
portrait  of  Dr.  Everman  hung  in  the  library  —  it 
was  difficult  to  fancy  that  delicate  hand  clutching 
a  weapon,  especially  a  weapon  brandished  over 
his  own  flesh  and  blood! 

Dr.  Lister  was  a  placid  person  to  whom  the  con- 
sciousness of  immortality  was  not  ever  present. 
He  had  had  few  personal  griefs;  he  had  had  little 
Christian  experience;  he  was  not  quite  certain, 
indeed,  that  immortality  was  desirable.  But  now 
there  swept  into  his  heart,  along  with  a  passionate 
grief  for  this  forgotten  lad,  a  passionate  demand 
that  he  should  not  be  dead,  but  that  he  should 
have  made  up  to  him  somewhere,  somehow,  his 
loss  of  the  sunshine  and  the  pleasant  breeze  and 
the  chance  to  go  on  with  what  was  unquestion- 
ably remarkable  work. 

He  wished,  though  from  quite  another  reason 
than  Mrs.  Lister's,  that  the  stranger  had  not  come. 


MY  BROTHER  BASIL  WAS  DIFFERENTl    127 

The  search  could  lead  nowhere;  the  boy  was  dead 
and  all  his  unborn  works  had  perished  with  him. 
The  thought  of  him  hurt,  and  in  spite  of  his  admo- 
nitions to  his  wife.  Dr.  Lister  mourned  him. 


CHAPTER  XI 

A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT 

Richard  Lister  played  with  Eleanor  Bent  for  the 
first  time  on  the  afternoon  of  Commencement  Day, 
which  was  Thursday.  He  played  with  her  also  on 
Friday  and  Saturday  and  again  on  Monday  and 
Tuesday.  In  the  mornings  he  played  with  Thoma- 
sina,  who  was  certain  that  she  had  never  seen  her 
beloved  pupil  so  anxious  for  perfection.  Never 
was  there  such  gilding  of  the  lily,  such  painstak- 
ing practice  of  trill  and  mordent.  She  would  have 
opened  her  brown  eyes  to  their  greatest  possible 
diameter  could  she  have  known  that  what  he 
practiced  with  her  in  the  mornings  he  played  with 
Eleanor  Bent  in  the  afternoons,  when  he  displayed 
all  the  fine  shadings  of  expression,  all  the  tricks 
of  fingering  which  he  had  learned  from  her.  With 
Eleanor's  mistakes  he  was  patient,  to  himself  he 
allowed  no  mistakes. 

As  little  as  Thomasina  suspected  that  his  play- 
ing with  her  was  for  the  time  mere  practicing  for 
a  more  important  audience,  so  little  did  Richard 
suspect  that  the  young  lady  beside  him  neglected 
all  other  tasks  in  order  to  prepare  as  well  as  she 
could  to  support  his  treble. 

On  two  evenings  of  the  week,  they  read  poetry 
together,  sitting  on  the  little  porch  facing  the  wide 
valley  and  each  taking  a  turn.  They  looked  at  the 


A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT         129 

beautiful  prospect,  then  they  read  again.  Each 
watched  the  other.  When  Eleanor's  eyes  were 
turned  definitely  toward  the  western  mountains 
and  her  head  away  from  him,  Richard's  eyes  took 
their  fill  of  her.  When  his  eyes  were  upon  his  book, 
she  learned  by  heart  each  line  of  his  countenance. 
She  had  quite  forgotten  by  now  her  uncertainties 
and  fears.  Within  doors  Mrs.  Bent  sat  under  her 
lamp,  forever  embroidering  beautiful  things. 

Together  the  two  read  *'Abt  Vogler,"  together 
"A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's."  Thomasina,  appealed 
to  by  Richard,  produced  "A  Toccata  of  Galuppi's" 
and  played  it  smilingly. 

"Curious,  is  n't  it.^  You've  been  reading  Brown- 
ing. Yes,  take  it  with  you." 

To  Richard  Eleanor  carried  from  her  neat  book- 
cases, volume  after  volume. 

"How  many  books  you  have!" 

"My  mother  gives  them  to  me,  and  Dr.  Green 
has  given  me  a  great  many." 

"Your  mother  and  Dr.  Green  have  good  taste," 
said  Richard. 

Together  they  read  the  "Blessed  Damozel,"  to- 
gether "Love  among  the  Ruins,"  together  "Staff 
and  Scrip."  Then  in  an  instant  the  old,  common 
miracle  was  wrought.  Life  was  short  and  troubled 
and  often  tragic  —  one  must  have  companionship 
to  make  it  endurable.  Looking  up  they  met  each 
other's  eyes. 

Richard's  hands  trembled,  a  solemn  thrill  was 
succeeded  by  a  warm  wave  of  emotion,  all  emotions 
which  seemed  to  gather  themselves  into  one.  He 


130  '^BASIL  EVERMAN 

could  not  look  long  into  the  bright  eyes  so  near 
him,  he  could  say  nothing,  he  must  rise  and  go 
away,  even  though  Eleanor  begged,  trembling, 
"Oh,  do  not  go!"  He  had  not  reckoned  upon  any- 
thing like  this,  was  not  prepared  for  it. 

"I  have  forgotten  something.  I  will  come  to- 
morrow." 

Richard  went  home  and  sat  by  his  window  and 
looked  out  over  the  campus  with  its  deep  shadows, 
a  broad  shadow  here  by  the  chapel,  a  lesser  shadow 
by  the  Scott  house.  He  heard  in  a  daze  his  mother's 
voice  and  his  father's  footstep,  and  when  all  was 
quiet  once  more  he  gave  to  his  youthful  fancy,  still 
clean  and  fresh,  free  rein.  He  leaned  his  head  against 
the  window  frame,  then,  hiding  his  eyes,  he  laid  his 
cheek  on  his  folded  arms.  The  night  seemed  to 
excite  while  it  blessed  him. 

He  began  to  be  sorry  that  he  had  left  her.  What 
was  she  doing  now.f^  Had  she  thought  him  rude.^ 
Did  she  think  of  him  at  all  when  he  was  not  with 
her.f^  She  seemed  far  above  him,  she  had  been  more 
conscientious  about  college  work,  she  knew  more 
than  he  did.  But  he  would  work,  there  should  be  no 
limit  to  his  working.  If  only  he  had  his  clavier  now! 
He  would  have  at  least  the  noblest  profession 
in  the  world.  He  began  to  count  the  years  before 
he  could  amount  to  anything.  And  she  was  already 
complete,  already  perfect ! 

When  he  thought  of  Thomasina,  it  was  to 
bless  her  for  setting  his  feet  in  the  right  way  and 
for  guarding  him  and  guiding  him.  He  thought  of 
his  mother  with  a  slight  feeling  of  uneasiness  about 


A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  131 

her  opinion  of  Eleanor.  She  had  never  even  invited 
Eleanor  to  the  house.  But  that  should  not  worry 
him.  His  mother  loved  him,  wished  him  to  be 
happy;  she  would  not  deny  him  that  which  would 
be  the  most  blessed  source  of  happiness.  He  would 
tell  her  about  Eleanor  to-morrow.  It  should  be  a 
casual  sentence  at  first,  a  word  or  two  about  the 
pretty  house  or  the  magnificent  piano  or  the  many 
books. 

It  was  long  past  midnight  when  he  went  to  bed 
and  almost  morning  when  he  fell  asleep.  He  was 
certain  that  he  was  the  only  person  awake  in  Wal- 
tonville  and  he  felt  as  though  he  were  guarding  his 
beloved. 

Mrs.  Bent  said  nothing  to  her  daughter  about 
the  sudden  and  frequent  visits  of  this  young  man. 
Certainly  no  two  persons  could  be  more  safely  or 
profitably  employed  than  in  playing  or  reading 
together!  She  did  not  listen  to  what  they  read, 
but  sat  wrapped  in  her  own  thoughts,  or  in  that 
blankness  of  mind  which  serves  even  the  most  men- 
tally active  for  thought  at  times.  There  were  now 
many  moments  when  she  looked  worried  and  har- 
assed. A  course  which  had  once  seemed  reasonable 
was  beginning  to  seem  more  and  more  mad. 

On  Wednesday  evening  Richard  returned,  hav- 
ing kept  himself  away  since  Tuesday  afternoon. 
He  had  said  nothing  to  his  mother  about  Eleanor 
or  her  books  or  her  piano.  He  had  been  making 
vague  plans.  Certain  expressions  of  his  mother's 
came  back  to  him;  a  sigh  when  he  sat  down  at  the 
piano,  and  an  unflattering  opinion  of  Thomasina's 


132  ^ASIL  EVERMAN 

finger  exercises,  heard  by  Mrs.  Lister  as  she  passed 
the  house.  Thomasina,  she  had  said,  had  been 
"tinkHng  and  banging,"  two  favorite  words  from 
her  small  musical  vocabulary.  Richard  felt  that 
the  time  was  not  propitious.  He  would  wait  a  day 
or  two  until  the  confusion  in  his  mind  had  given 
place  to  those  even  and  regular  processes  which 
had  always  been  his. 

He  found  Eleanor  seated  on  the  upper  step  of 
the  porch,  trying  to  read  by  the  failing  light,  and 
he  sat  down  and  leaned  against  the  other  pillar 
from  where  he  could  watch  her.  She  told  him  what 
she  had  been  doing,  how  she  had  practiced  —  this  a 
little  wistfully  —  all  the  morning,  and  how  she  had 
found  that  Dr.  Green  had  sat  in  his  carriage  listen- 
ing to  her  for  dear  knows  how  long. 

"He's  a  funny  soul,"  said  Eleanor.  "He's  al- 
ways bossing  me  and  correcting  me,  but  I  love  him. 
Are  n't  you  very  fond  of  him.^" 

"I  don't  know  that  I  am,"  said  Richard,  con- 
scious of  a  sudden  cooling  of  whatever  emotion  he 
had  felt  toward  Dr.  Green. 

"Well,  I  am,"  said  Eleanor.  "Did  you  ever  hear 
how  he  disposes  of  his  books?" 

"No." 

"If  he  begins  a  book  and  does  n't  like  its  theo- 
ries, he  drops  it  into  his  waste-basket.  Then  his 
Virginia  carefully  fishes  it  out  and  carries  it  down 
to  the  cabins.  She  has  a  lot  of  shelves  made  of 
soap-boxes,  and  there  stand  Billings  on  the  Eye 
and  Jackson  on  Bones  and  Piatt  on  dear  knows 
what." 


A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  133 

Eleanor  talked  easily  and  well.  Her  teachers  and 
her  friend  Miss  Thomasina  and  her  acquaintance 
Mr.  Utterly  would  have  been  astonished  to  hear 
her.  It  seemed  to  her  that  some  confining  band 
within  her  had  parted  and  that  she  was  expanding 
out  of  the  former  compass  of  her  body  and  her 
mind.  She  talked  about  the  moonlight,  about  the 
lovely  valley,  about  the  poetry  she  had  been  read- 
ing. Suddenly  she  turned  to  Richard. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  this  fall?" 

"I'm  going  to  study  music."  Richard  woke  from 
a  trance  to  his  uneasy  thoughts. 

"How  lovely!"  Eleanor  sighed.  She  was  begin- 
ning to  know  him  and  now  he  would  go  away;  he 
would  become  famous,  he  would  forget  her  entirely. 
To  her  came  also  a  determination  to  be  more  de- 
voted to  her  work,  to  grow  as  he  grew.  "When  are 
you  going  away?" 

"In  the  fall." 

"And  where  will  you  study?" 

"In  New  York,  with  Faversham." 

"Miss  Thomasina's  friend?" 

"Yes." 

"How  fortunate  you  are!"  Eleanor  meant  not 
only  that  he  was  fortunate  to  be  able  to  do  as  he 
pleased,  but  that  he  was  fortunate  to  be  Richard. 
"Then  you'll  forget  all  about  Waltonville." 

"It's  not  likely."  Richard  remembered  miser- 
ably that  after  all  nothing  was  settled.  An  exceed- 
ing high  mountain  blocked  his  path  and  it  was 
growing  higher  and  higher.  He  looked  out  over  the 
valley,  chin  on  hand.  It  seemed  to  Eleanor  that  he 


134  ^ASIL  EVERMAN 

shut  her  out  of  his  thoughts,  that  he  had  already 
forgotten  her. 

"I  have  written  a  story  that  has  been  accepted," 
she  said  timidly,  forgetting  all  her  fears  and  com- 
punctions about  what  she  had  written.  "It  has 
been  accepted  by  'Willard's  Magazine'  and  it  is 
to  be  published  very  soon.  A  Mr.  Utterly  came 
here  to  tell  me." 

Richard's  comment  came  after  a  long  pause. 

"  I  think  that  is  splendid ! " 

"I  have  n't  told  any  one  but  my  mother,"  fal- 
tered Eleanor,  certain  that  he  must  think  her 
boastful  and  conceited.  It  seemed  to  her  that  again 
he  left  in  a  sudden,  unceremonious  way. 

Again  Richard  sat  by  his  window.  He  would 
have  liked  to  walk  the  floor,  but  he  was  afraid  that 
his  mother  would  hear  and  that  she  would  come  to 
his  room  and  talk  to  him.  He  must  have  this  time 
alone.  He  had  accomplished  nothing,  was  accom- 
plishing nothing.  Only  a  little  while  ago  he  had 
been  so  happy  and  so  certain  of  himself  and  of  all 
that  he  was  going  to  do.  But  Eleanor  Bent  had  had 
a  story  accepted  for  publication !  He  did  not  believe 
that  Dr.  Scott,  whom  he  called  "Old  Scotty,"  had 
ever  dreamed  of  such  an  honor.  That  man  Utterly 
had  come  to  tell  her !  Utterly  had  seemed  a  counter- 
feit, but  he  must  be  a  man  of  some  parts  or  he 
would  not  hold  a  responsible  position.  She  was  now 
even  farther  above  him  than  before.  To-morrow 
his  own  future  must  be  definitely  settled. 

The  next  afternoon  he  went  to  see  Thomasina. 
She  would  help  him  as  she  had  always  helped  him. 


A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  135 

She  sat  upon  her  throne  by  the  garden  door  with 
a  new  life  of  Beethoven  open  on  the  table  by  her 
side;  she  had  put  it  down  as  he  came  in  to  take 
up  a  piece  of  sewing. 

"It  is  amazing  and  incredible  and  inspiring  to 
contemplate  the  obstacles  which  great  spirits  have 
overcome,"  said  Thomasina  with  shining  eyes. 
"Physical  defects,  mental  defects,  opposition  of 
relatives,  of  all  mankind,  of  fate  itself  —  none  of 
them  ever  daunted  an  earnest  man  set  upon  achiev- 
ing a  great  thing.  All  great  achievement  seems  to 
have  had  the  history  of  Paul's!  'In  weariness  and 
painfulness,  in  watchings  often,  in  hunger  and 
thirst,  in  fastings  often,  in  cold  and  nakedness.' 
Richard  — "  Her  bright  eyes  searched  his  troubled 
face  —  "What  is  the  matter,  my  dear?" 

"Everything,"  said  Richard. 

"Suppose  we  begin  with  one  thing." 

Richard  slapped  his  cap  up  and  down  on  his 
knee.  "I  want  to  get  to  work." 

"Why  don't  you?" 

"What  do  you  suppose  my  father  and  mother 
will  say  to  my  studying  music?" 

"The  sooner  you  hear  what  they  have  to  say  the 
better  for  all  of  you.  Your  parents  are  persons  of 
excellent  common  sense.  And  I  have  some  news  for 
you.  Henry  Faversham  is  to  be  in  Baltimore  for  a 
few  days  before  long." 

Richard's  head  whirled. 

"Do  you  suppose  I  could  play  for  him  there? 
Do  you  suppose  he  will  ever  take  me  as  a  pupil?" 

"  Certainly  he  will !  I  have  n't  spent  all  these 


136  l^^IL  EVERMAN 

years  teaching  you  to  have  you  refused  by  any- 
body." 

"Suppose  I  did  go,  what  should  I  prepare  to 
play?"  The  unhappy  look  was  gone  from  Richard's 
face.  Thomasina  had  the  gift  of  wings,  no  less  than 
Basil  Everman.  Moreover,  she  lifted  others  out  of 
fog-dimmed  valleys  up  to  mountain  peaks.  Rich- 
ard's eyes  shone,  his  cheeks  glowed,  ambition  and 
aspiration  now  quickened  by  a  new  motive,  took 
up  their  abode  once  more  in  his  breast. 

On  his  way  home  Mrs.  Scott  called  to  him  from 
her  porch.  Impatiently  he  obeyed  the  summons. 
He  did  not  like  her,  and  had  never  disliked  her 
so  much  as  he  did  at  this  moment.  She  had  many 
foolish  questions  to  ask.  What  did  he  think  of  her 
friend  Mr.  Utterly.^  What  did  he  suppose  was  Mr. 
Utterly 's  business  with  Eleanor  Bent.f^  She  under- 
stood that  he  had  spent  an  evening  with  her.  The 
Bents  were  strange  people,  they  behaved  well,  yet 
everything  that  one  knew  definitely  about  Mrs. 
Bent  was  that  she  was  a  hotel-keeper's  daughter. 

Richard  said  shortly  in  reply  that  he  had  had  no 
conversation  with  Mr.  Utterly  and  that  he  knew 
none  of  his  business. 

"And  I  do  think  it  is  the  most  pathetic  thing 
about  your  Uncle  Basil,"  said  Mrs.  Scott. 

"My  Uncle  Basil,"  repeated  Richard.  "What  of 
him.?^" 

Mrs.  Scott's  hands  clasped  one  another  in  a 
gesture  of  amazement. 

"Why  Mr.  Utterly  said  —  why  where  were  you? 
—  oh,  yes,  you  were  in  the  kitchen  so  kindly  help- 


A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  137 

ing  Cora!  —  he  said  your  uncle  wrote  wonderfully. 
I  think  it's  very  strange  — " 

Richard  was  suddenly  certain  that  his  neighbor 
wished  to  "get  something  out  of  him." 

"Oh,  that!"  said  he,  without  having  any  idea 
what  she  meant. 

Mrs.  Scott  made  him  promise  to  come  the  next 
afternoon  to  play  with  Cora.  He  could  not  escape. 
He  almost  added  poor,  inoffensive  Cora  to  her 
mother  and  the  metallic  piano  in  the  limbo  to  which 
he  consigned  them.  Now  his  wings  drooped.  He 
decided  that  after  supper  he  would  lie  down  for  a 
few  minutes  to  get  rid  of  the  sharp  pain  which  too 
much  practicing  had  put  into  the  back  of  his  neck. 
Then  he  would  join  his  father  and  mother  on  the 
porch  and  settle  the  important  business  of  his 
future. 

At  the  supper  table  he  asked  about  his  Uncle 
Basil  and  his  mother  answered  placidly,  prepared 
for  the  question. 

"He  had  published  anonymously  some  stories 
and  this  Mr.  Utterly  came  to  ask  questions  about 
his  life." 

"Why  was  n't  I  told?" 

"You  have  n't  been  here  very  much  of  late,  my 
dear." 

"Where  are  the  stories?" 

"Mr.  Utterly  has  them." 

"Could  n't  we  get  them?" 

"Perhaps  we  could." 

"How  did  Mrs.  Scott  know  about  him?" 

"Mr.  Utterly  went  there  to  inquire." 


138  PASIL  EVERMAN 

"Did  you  know  they  had  been  published.^" 

"  No.  You  had  better  stay  with  us  this  evening. 
We  scarcely  know  our  boy." 

There  was  to  be  no  escaping  to  his  room.  Mrs. 
Lister  laid  her  arm  across  his  shoulders  and  to- 
gether they  went  out  to  the  porch.  The  air  was  cool 
and  sweet;  near  by  a  woodpecker  tapped  slowly, 
wrens  chattered,  anxious  about  their  late  nestlings, 
song  sparrows  trilled,  and  flickers  and  robins 
hopped  under  the  spray  which  Dr.  Lister  was  send- 
ing over  his  cannas  and  elephant  ears. 

Mrs.  Lister,  with  Richard  at  her  side,  felt  her 
heart  at  rest.  Utterly  had  vanished  definitely,  leav- 
ing no  trail  behind  him.  She  could  now  think  of 
Richard's  future,  both  immediate  and  far  removed. 
She  asked  him  whether  he  would  like  to  pay  a  visit 
to  Dr.  Lister's  kin  in  St.  Louis. 

"No,  indeed,"  said  Richard. 

"But  you  used  to  want  to  go  out  there!" 

"But  I  don't  now,  mother  —  unless  you  want  me 
to  take  you,"  he  added  with  sudden  compunction. 

"Oh,  no,"  said  Mrs.  Lister. 

Further  conversation  was  postponed  by  the 
arrival  of  the  Myerses  to  call.  When  all  possible 
themes  of  common  interest  had  been  discussed 
and  they  had  moved  on  to  talk  of  the  same  sub- 
jects at  the  Scotts',  darkness  had  come.  Mrs. 
Lister  did  not  wish  to  give  up  the  idea  of  a  visit. 

"You  have  had  a  busy  winter  and  this  fall  you 
will  go  to  the  university,  and  you  may  wish  to  do 
something  else  in  vacations." 

Richard  cleared  his  throat.  He  sat  about  a  dozen 


A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  139 

feet  away  from  his  father  and  mother  and  facing 
them  as  a  culprit  might  have  sat. 

"But  I  don't  wish  to  go  to  the  university, 
mother." 

"What  do  you  wish  to  do?" 

Richard  almost  said  passionately,  "You  know 
what  I  wish  to  do ! "  But  he  would  have  been  wrong. 
Mrs.  Lister  was  certain  that  Richard  had  put  away 
all  childish  things. 

"I  wish  to  study  music." 

Mrs.  Lister  dropped  her  hands,  palm  upward, 
into  her  lap. 

"I  thought  you  were  over  thatr'  said  she,  much 
more  sharply  than  Richard  had  ever  heard  her 
speak.  "I  thought  you  had  given  it  up." 

"I  have  never  given  it  up  for  a  minute.  I  never 
shall  give  it  up." 

Mrs.  Lister  gasped.  Richard  might  almost  as 
well  have  announced  that  he  had  ceased  to  think 
of  her  or  love  her.  She  could  not  brook  difference  of 
opinion  in  her  son. 

"It  cannot  be.  I  cannot  hear  of  it.  You  are  a 
man  and  you  must  do  a  man's  work." 

"It  is  a  man's  work!"  cried  Richard.  The  pain 
in  the  back  of  his  neck  was  growing  more  acute. 
"Father,  don't  you  consider  it  a  man's  work?" 

Dr.  Lister  moved  uneasily. 

"We  have  n't  had  musicians  in  the  family  thus 
far.  Suppose  you  tell  us  about  it." 

Richard  drew  a  long  breath. 

"It 's  what  I  have  wanted  to  do  ever  since  I  have 
wanted  to  do  anything!  I  have  planned  for  it  all 


140  BASIL  EVERMAN 

my  life.  I  have  practiced  for  professional,  not  for 
amateur  playing.  The  two  are  very  different.  Miss 
Thomasina  has  drilled  me  with  the  greatest  care. 
I  have  taken  pains  with  my  German  and  French 
and  Italian.  I  have  talent,  Miss  Thomasina  says 
so,  and  I  know  that  I  have  no  other  talent,  at  least. 
I—" 

"Thomasina  has  been  encouraging  you,  I  sup- 
pose?" said  Mrs.  Lister. 

"She  was  my  teacher,  of  course  she  encouraged 
me.  I  am  prepared  for  Faversham.  I  — " 

"Faversham.f^"  Mrs.  Lister's  tone  was  as  nearly 
scornful  as  she  could  make  it.  It^was  as  though  she 
alluded  to  a  mountebank. 

"I  have  often  told  you  about  him,  mother.  He 
is  the  greatest  teacher  in  New  York  and  he  is  Miss 
Thomasina's  old  friend.  She  has  prepared  me  for 
him  as  though  she  were  a  pupil  teacher." 

"What  is  a  pupil  teacher?"  asked  Mrs.  Lister 
in  the  same  tone. 

"He  is  the  pupil  of  a  great  master  who  prepares 
younger  pupils  according  to  the  master's  methods. 
Miss  Thomasina  is  the  most  wonderful  person  I 
know." 

After  that  sentence  there  was  a  pause,  which 
grew  longer  and  longer. 

"Your  mother  would  like  you  to  be  a  preacher 
or  a  teacher  like  your  father  and  grandfather,"  said 
Dr.  Lister  at  last.  "  Or,  perhaps  a  lawyer  or  doctor." 

"I  could  not  be  a  doctor.  I  hate  the  sight  of  Dr. 
Green's  office  with  all  the  bottles  and  knives.  And 
a  lawyer  —  I  think  a  lawyer's  business  is  hideous. 


A  DUET  AND  WHAT  CAME  OF  IT  141 

They  make  people  pay  to  get  what  is  theirs  by 
right,  and  they  help  to  cheat  the  poor.  They  defend 
murderers  when  they  know  they  are  murderers  and 
try  to  hang  innocent  men.  I  'm  not  interested  in 
sick  bodies  or  in  crimes.  I  'm  willing  to  be  a  teacher, 
but  it  must  be  a  teacher  of  music." 

"To  take  children  to  teach,  like  Thomasina,  for 

"Why,  certainly,  for  pay!  A  musician  must  live 
like  any  one  else.  I  would  n't  want  to  take  absolute 
babies  or  too  many  stupid  children,  but  I'd  be 
perfectly  willing  to  begin  that  way." 

"You  would  cover  me  with  shame!" 

"Mother!" 

Dr.  Lister  tapped  the  arms  of  his  chair  nervously. 
Above  all  things  in  the  world  he  disliked  acrimoni- 
ous discussion  between  members  of  the  same  fam- 
ily. Mrs.  Lister  was  hard  on  the  boy.  Besides,  she 
was  becoming  a  little  ridiculous.  He  was  apt  to 
put  oflF  disagreeable  duties  in  the  hope  that  they 
would  not  have  to  be  performed  or  that  they  might 
cease  to  be  disagreeable. 

"We  need  n't  decide  it  all  at  this  moment." 

"It  is  decided,"  said  Mrs.  Lister. 

"Mr.  Utterly  thought  he  played  very  well.  I 
suppose  he  has  had  opportunity  to  judge." 

"I  consider  Mr.  Utterly  a  poor  judge  of  any- 
thing," Mrs.  Lister  went  on  vehemently.  It  seemed 
to  her  agonized  eyes  that  Richard  looked  like  Basil. 
Basil  never  argued,  but  he  took  his  own  way.  "I 
cannot  have  it,"  said  she.  "I  will  not  have  it.  You 
are  my  child.  I  brought  you  into  the  world.  I  have 


142  BASIL  EVERMAN 

i 

some  rights  in  you.  If  you  persist — "  Mrs.  Lister 

stopped,  terrified,  at  a  bitter  reminiscence  suggested 

by  her  tone  and  her  words.  She  put  up  her  hand  to 

hide  her  eyes. 

Richard  was  frightened.  It  could  not  be  that 
they  would  seriously  oppose  him,  that  he  could  not 
persuade  them !  It  could  not  be  that  he  would  have 
to  work  his  own  way.  It  could  not  be  that  he  must 
hurt  and  defy  his  mother!  He  thought  of  Eleanor 
Bent,  successful,  honored,  sought  out,  lost  to  him. 

"It  will  not  be  necessary  for  you  even  to  get  a 
new  piano,  mother.  I  can  use  Miss  Thomasina's 
and  the  assembly  room  piano.  I  am  going  to  spend 
my  Commencement  money  for  a  clavier.  It  will  not 
make  any  noise  that  can  be  heard  when  the  door 
of  my  room  is  shut.  I  need  not  practice  at  home  at 
all.  I  will  not  be  a  nuisance  in  the  least." 

Mrs.  Lister  looked  at  him  as  though  he  had 
struck  her. 

"It  is  not  money,"  she  said  slowly.  "And  it  is 
not  noise.  But  what  you  wish  to  do  is  impossible." 

She  rose  and  went  into  the  house. 
'  Richard  turned  to  his  father. 

"I  am  sorry  for  mother,"  said  he.  "But  I  am 
going  to  study  music." 

Here  at  last  was  steel  under  the  satin. 


CHAPTER  XII 

GROWING  PAINS 

Eleanor  did  not  yield  without  a  struggle  to  the 
tyranny  of  this  new  affection.  The  seclusion  in 
which  she  and  her  mother  lived,  a  natural  shyness 
as  deep,  though  not  as  manifest,  as  that  which  her 
mother  had  so  strangely  developed,  and  the  keen 
ambition  implanted  and  nourished  by  Dr.  Green 
had  prevented  thus  far  the  characteristic  seeking 
of  youth  for  emotion  to  match  its  own. 

Nor  had  she  been  humiliated  by  the  failure  of  a 
lover  to  seek  her.  Waltonville  had  seemed  to  offer 
no  one  who  was  not  too  old  or  too  young  or  too 
dull  or  already  married.  She  admired  her  teachers, 
Dr.  Lister  and  Dr.  Scott,  and  would  have  selected 
Dr.  Scott  as  a  specimen  of  her  favorite  masculine 
type. 

Now  she  found  herself  changed.  She  could  not 
rise  in  the  morning  and  fill  her  leisurely  summer 
day  as  she  had  planned.  The  long  mornings  and 
longer  afternoons  and  quiet  evenings  were  not  hers 
to  divide  and  use.  Instead  of  steady  practicing  at 
exercises  and  scales,  she  practiced  the  bass  or  treble 
of  duets;  instead  of  sitting  at  her  desk  for  many 
quiet  productive  hours,  she  sat  on  the  porch  or  in 
the  little  parlor.  Plots  which  she  had  expected  to 
crystallize  promptly  now  that  school  was  over,  re- 
fused to  progress  beyond  the  point  where  she  had 


144  jBASIL  EVERMAN 

left  them  in  her  notebooks;  images  grew  dim,  words 
refused  to  fit  themselves  to  thought,  thought  itself 
was  dull  and  valueless.  She  could  put  her  mind 
upon  one  object,  Richard  Lister;  could  wish  for  but 
one  thing,  his  company. 

In  the  mornings  she  was  least  possessed.  Then 
she  had  still  the  hope  of  his  coming;  the  childish 
belief  that  if  she  practiced  a  certain  number  of 
hours  or  wrote  a  certain  number  of  pages,  the  fates 
would  reward  her.  If  afternoon  did  not  bring  him, 
she  tried  vainly  to  work,  as  though  she  would  by 
her  very  striving  win  a  blessing.  The  evenings,  if 
he  did  not  appear,  were  intolerable.  At  bedtime 
she  made  up  her  mind  definitely  to  think  of  him 
no  more,  to  make  to-morrow  a  day  of  accomplish- 
ment. She  saw  herself  in  a  dim  future  greeting  him 
placidly  from  some  tall  peak  of  literary  achieve- 
ment, but  she  knew  while  she  planned  that  literary 
achievement,  hitherto  so  intensely  desired,  allured 
no  more.  In  anger  at  herself  she  wept. 

"I  am  a  fool!  I  will  do  differently!  I  will  not 
think  of  him!" 

The  excuses  which  she  invented  for  him  only 
made  a  bad  matter  worse.  He  was  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  come  to  see  her.  Then  he  did  not  need  her 
as  she  needed  him!  He  was  surely  under  no  obliga- 
tion to  come  to  see  her  every  day  since  he  was  pre- 
paring for  the  splendid  career  which  was  to  be  his. 
But  she  would  never  shut  him  out  from  any  career 
of  hers!  He  was  spending  his  days  in  the  society  of 
his  father  and  mother  or  of  Thomasina  or  —  with 
Cora  Scott.  The  first  possibility  she  could  endure. 


GROWING  PAINS  145 

the  second  was  tolerable,  though  it  brought  a  pang. 
But  that  he  could  be  seeking  out  Cora  Scott,  little, 
quiet,  dull  Cora  Scott!  That  could  not  be  believed. 

A  score  of  pin-pricking  anxieties,  which  she  would 
have  laughed  at  at  another  time,  rose  now  to  vex 
her.  There  was  a  new  gown  which  did  not  fit;  there 
was  an  entirely  imaginary  coolness  in  Thomasina's 
greeting;  there  was,  especially,  the  outrageous  use 
she  had  made  of  Dr.  Lister's  shoelaces  and  Dr. 
Scott's  den.  Her  unconsciousness  of  the  offense 
made  it  all  the  more  terrible  since  it  seemed  to 
indicate  a  lack  of  fine  feeling.  It  was  now  impossible 
for  her  to  understand  how  she  could  have  ever 
committed  so  grave  a  fault. 

When  Richard  had  not  presented  himself  for 
three  days,  she  deliberately  collected  the  meager 
facts  which  she  knew  about  her  mother  and  herself. 
Her  mother  had  been  the  daughter  of  the  tavern- 
keeper —  Eleanor  saw  the  present  tavern-keeper. 
She  had  gone  away  from  Waltonville  and  had  mar- 
ried and  had  afterwards  returned.  Her  father  was 
dead  long  since ;  that  she  had  told  Eleanor  definitely ; 
and  her  husband  was  dead  also,  and  she  could  not 
bear  to  speak  of  either  of  them  or  be  spoken  to 
about  them.  She  had  ample  means  for  their  simple 
living  —  enough,  indeed,  for  such  a  luxury  as  the 
finest  piano  in  Waltonville,  enough  so  that  she  and 
Eleanor  could  go  to  New  York  or  Boston  for  the 
next  winter  if  they  wished.  Her  money  came  to  her 
each  month  from  a  lawyer  in  Baltimore  who  at- 
tended to  her  affairs.  There  was  the  total  which 
Eleanor  possessed. 


146  pASIL  EVERMAN 

'  It  was  a  total  with  which  she  might  have  been 
still  longer  satisfied  if  it  had  not  been  for  Richard 
and  the  contrast  between  his  situation  and  her  own. 
He  knew  all  the  details  of  his  family  history.  One 
grandfather  had  perished  in  the  Civil  War,  another 
had  been  the  honored  president  of  the  college.  One 
ancestor,  indeed,  had  signed  the  Declaration  of 
Independence.  If  only  there  were  a  single  Bent 
or  Ginter  to  place  beside  him,  only  a  single  Bent  or 
Ginter  about  whom  one  could  even  speak! 

Steadily  bits  of  the  past  came  into  her  quickened 
mind.  There  was  the  insulting  familiarity  of  Bates, 
the  sodden  drunkard.  But  he  would  have  known 
her  mother  when  she  lived  at  the  tavern  and  he 
might  not  always  have  been  as  he  was  now. 

"Am  I  growing  mad.^"  said  Eleanor  in  horror  of 
herself. 

She  remembered  also  the  scolding  voice  which 
had  gone  on  and  on,  which  connected  itself  with 
her  cut  head,  and  which  had  on  another  occasion 
wakened  her  at  night.  She  heard  her  mother's 
voice,  weeping,  angry,  and  a  single  ungrammatical 
protest,  "I  ain't  going  to  do  it!" 

"That  I  have  imagined,"  said  Eleanor. 

The  simple  expedient  of  asking  her  mother  oc- 
curred to  her  and  was  rejected.  Old  habit  persisted; 
she  had  never  forgotten  her  first  rebuff.  She  still 
stood,  in  spite  of  her  superior  knowledge,  her  su- 
perior height,  and  various  other  superiorities,  in 
awe  of  little  Margie. 

When  the  need  of  a  confidant  for  some  of  her 
trouble  became  too  pressing  to  be  resisted,  she 


GROWING  PAINS  147 

went  to  Dr.  Green,  to  whom  she  had  gone  in  all 
childish  complaints.  His  independent  custom  of  fol- 
lowing his  own  will  with  complete  indiflPerence  to 
all  else  appeared  suddenly  a  most  desirable  quality. 
She  would  tell  him  about  Dr.  Lister's  shoelaces. 

Dr.  Green  hailed  her  loudly  and  directed  her  to 
his  inner  office  while  he  saw  a  patient  in  the  outer 
room.  The  night  was  warm  and  the  odor  of  chemi- 
cals more  oppressive  than  usual.  Eleanor  looked 
about  with  the  amused  astonishment  with  which 
the  chaos  always  filled  her.  How  could  a  human 
being  live  in  such  a  state  when  all  might  be  put  to 
rights  in  a  day?  In  the  corners  on  the  floor  was 
piled  an  accumulation  of  medical  journals  covering 
five  years.  Dr.  Green's  method  of  filing  consisted 
apparently  of  a  left-handed  fling  for  the  "Journal," 
a  right-handed  fling  for  the  "Lancet,"  and  a  toss 
over  the  head  for  the  "Medical  Courier."  In  the 
fourth  corner  a  spigot  dripped  water  steadily  into 
a  rusty  sink.  In  the  upper  corners  were  dusty 
spider  webs,  and  over  all  the  light  of  an  unshaded 
lamp  glared.  Sitting  in  the  midst  in  her  beautiful 
clothes,  Eleanor  looked  like  a  visiting  princess. 

When  Dr.  Green  came  back,  he  sat  down  in  the 
swivel  chair  before  his  desk  and  looked  at  her  care- 
fully, as  though  seeking  some  sign  of  illness.  There 
was  for  an  instant  a  hungry  look  in  his  eyes;  he 
regarded  her  a  little  as  her  mother  regarded  her, 
or  as  Mrs.  Lister  regarded  Richard.  It  was  a  look 
which  only  Thomasina  had  ever  detected;  it  had 
made  her  laugh  when  he  talked  about  young  men 
,  encumbering  themselves  with  families. 


148  B/SIL  EVERMAN 

"Why  don't  you  have  a  wife?"  asked  Eleanor. 

Dr.  Green  stared. 

"What!" 

"Why  don't  you  have  a  wife?"  Eleanor  waved 
her  hand  toward  the  pile  of  "Lancets."  "She'd  fix 
you  up." 

Dr.  Green  continued  to  stare.  He  flushed  and 
blinked.  Eleanor  had  changed  somehow,  had  gath- 
ered from  some  source  a  new  self-assurance.  She 
had  gathered  also  a  new  beauty. 

"I  don't  see  anything  the  matter  with  you."  He 
laid  his  finger  tips  on  her  wrist.  "What  did  you 
come  for?  To  see  me  or  to  borrow  a  book?" 

"I  came  to  see  you." 

"You  don't  look  exactly  happy  about  it." 

"I'm  not  happy." 

"What's  the  matter  with  you?" 

"I've  gotten  dreadfully  worried  about  some- 
thing." 

"  'Gotten'  is  obsolete,  my  dear,  and  an  ugly  word 
at  best.  What's  worrying  you?" 

Eleanor  suddenly  blushed  scarlet.  She  had  known 
for  three  weeks  that  "Willard's  Magazine"  would 
publish  "Professor  Ellenborough's  Last  Class." 

"I've  written  a  story." 

"You  have!"  Dr.  Green  brought  the  seat  of  his 
swivel  chair  down  upon  the  base  with  a  slam. 
"What  sort  of  story?  Where  is  it?" 

"I  sent  it  away."  She  could  not  help  enjoying 
the  telling.  She  felt  her  throat  swell  and  her  fingers 
tingle.  She  forgot  even  Richard  and  realized  only 
that  her  hopes  had  been  realized.  She  saw  herself 


GROWING  PAINS  149 

a  little  girl  in  Dr.  Green's  buggy,  traveling  along  a 
country  road.  Her  clasped  hands  lay  in  her  lap  and 
were  covered  by  his  strong  grasp.  "You  must 
amount  to  something,  Eleanor,"  he  had  said.  It 
had  seemed  to  her  that  he  was  almost  crying. 

"Your  story  didn't  come  back,  did  it?"  said 
Dr.  Green  now. 

"Three  times.  But  at  last  it  has  been  accepted  by 
*Willard's  Magazine.'" 

Dr.  Green  gave  a  little  start.  Though  he  was  a 
purist,  he  allowed  himself  certain  vivid  expres- 
sions. 

"The  dickens  you  say!" 

Again  the  hungry  look  came  back  into  his  eyes 
and  was  gone.  He  looked  Eleanor  over  from  top  to 
toe,  as  though  expecting  her  triumph  to  have  left 
some  visible  mark  upon  her. 

"Are  n't  you  surprised.?" 

"I  am  overwhelmed.  Did  you  bring  the  story  to 
read  to  me?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"When  did  you  hear  from  them?'* 

"A  Mr.  Utterly  came  to  tell  me." 

"That  lily  of  the  field!  On  Commencement  Day? 
And  you  are  telling  me  now!  Why,  Eleanor!" 

"I  had  to  get  used  to  it.  Then  I  got  worried." 

"Worried?  What  about?" 

"It  is  a  college  story,  and  I  wrote  it  without  ever 
dreaming  that  Waltonville  might  read  it  or  that 
any  one  would  take  it.  I  have  represented  people 
here  in  it." 

"Not  by  name!" 


150  ^BASIL  EVERMAN 

"No;  but  I  said  one  professor  in  the  story  had 
dangling  shoelaces." 

"Whose?" 

"Dr.  Lister's." 

"Do  his  shoelaces  dangle?  What  else?" 

"I  described  a  den  like  Dr.  Scott's." 

"Is  that  all?" 

"Yes." 

"Well,  as  far  as  the  shoelaces  are  concerned,  per- 
haps it'll  teach  Lister  to  keep  his  tied.  And  Scott 
does  n't  have  a  den;  he  has  a  neat,  dustless  resting- 
place  from  terror  by  day  and  tempest  by  night.  Tell 
them  it's  my  den.  Does  your  mother  know?" 

"Of  course." 

After  this  there  was  a  little  silence.  Dr.  Green 
looked  at  the  floor. 

"No  one  else,  I  suppose?" 

"Richard  Lister  knows."  Eleanor  believed  that 
she  had  succeeded  in  saying  the  name  naturally 
and  easily. 

"Richard  Lister!  How  does  he  come  to  know?" 

"He  has  been  playing  duets  with  me.  I  —  I  just 
happened  to  tell  him." 

"Richard  is  such  a  nice,  sleek,  silky  mother's 
boy !  I  expect  he  '11  be  a  preacher.  Did  you  read  him 
the  story?" 

"No.  Of  course  not.  I  would  n't  read  it  to  any 
one.  I  only  told  him  it  had  been  accepted." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  next?"  Dr.  Green 
rose  and  began  to  walk  up  and  down.  He  seemed 
possessed  by  a  sort  of  rage.  "Are  you  going  to  sit 
here  and  wait  for  some  one  to  say,  *  Eleanor,  be 


GROWING  PAINS  151 

mine!'  meanwhile  making  tatting  or  lambrequins 
with  String,  or  are  you  going  to  improve  your  mind 
and  amount  to  something?  You  have  n't  done  any- 
thing yet,  you  know!  You  do  know  that,  don't 
you?" 

"Oh,  perfectly,"  answered  Eleanor.  "I  don't 
know  what  I  'm  going  to  do.  It  depends  on  mother. 
I—" 

Dr.  Green  swept  "mother"  aside  and  Eleanor's 
further  explanations  with  her.  "You  ought  to  have 
experiences;  you  ought  to  see  pictures  and  hear  fine 
music  and  see  the  world.  You  —  why,  Eleanor, 
you  're  young,  you  have  talent,  you  have  the  finest 
of  prospects !  I  would  n't  think  of  anything  else. 
I'd  make  all  my  plans  for  every  minute  of  the  day 
to  accomplish  one  end.  You  have  n't  any  encum- 
brances, you  haven't  any  duties!  But  you  must 
realize  that  you  can't  serve  two  masters.  If  you 
have  talent,  it's  a  trust,  and  you've  got  to  im- 
prove it.  If  you  don't,  if  you  betray  the  trust, 
you'll  suffer  all  your  life."  He  came  back  and  bent 
over  her.  "My  dear  Eleanor,  promise  to  listen  to 
what  I  say!" 

Eleanor's  voice  refused  to  obey  her  bidding.  She 
felt  an  excitement  almost  as  intense  as  Dr.  Green's 
and  confidence  in  herself  returned. 

"Promise  me!" 

"I  promise." 

Then  she  rose  unsteadily.  Dr.  Green's  eyes  dis- 
turbed her.  "I  must  go  home.  Mother  will  want 


me." 


Dr.  Green  did  not  go  with  her  to  the  door;  in- 


152  BASIL  EVERMAN 

stead  he  tramped  up  and  down  his  untidy  room. 
"'Mother  will  want  me!'"  said  he  when  she  had 
gone. 

Eleanor's  mood  lasted  until  morning.  But  when 
Richard  did  not  come,  morning,  afternoon,  or  eve- 
ning, either  that  day  or  the  next,  ambition  became 
once  more  ashes  in  her  mouth.  It  was  all  very  well 
for  Dr.  Green  to  command  her  to  write.  Writing 
could  be  accomplished  only  with  a  mind  at  peace; 
talent  was  not  a  friend,  but  a  fickle  mistress,  the 
companion  of  happy  hours  and  not  a  panacea  for 
heartache.  She  could  not  understand  how  her 
mother,  completing  her  little  round  of  daily  duties, 
could  be  so  quiet,  so  content.  Presently  the  sight 
bred  resentment.  No  sympathetic  heart  could  be 
at  rest  when  one's  own  was  so  ill  at  ease.  When 
another  day  passed  and  still  Richard  did  not  come, 
she  grew,  for  the  first  time  in  her  life,  irritable. 
Presently  she  put  a  question  without  preface  as  she 
and  her  mother  sat  together  in  the  little  dining- 
room  on  a  rainy  evening.  The  house  had  seemed  all 
day  like  a  prison. 

"Mother,  I  wish  you  would  tell  me  something 
about  my  father." 

Mrs.  Bent's  head  bowed  itself  lower  over  her 
work.  The  question  had  all  the  suddenness  of  an 
unexpected  thunderbolt. 

"What  do  you  want  to  know  about  him?" 

"Who  he  was,  where  he  came  from,  who  his  peo- 
ple were." 

"He  was  tall,"  answered  Mrs.  Bent.  "He  had  n't 
many  relatives.  He  lived  in  Baltimore." 


GROWING  PAmS  153 

Eleanor  saw  her  mother's  hand  shake.  She  had 
the  uncomfortable  sensation  of  one  who  is  pursuing 
a  perfectly  correct  course,  but  who  is  at  the  same 
time  made  to  feel  that  he  is  entirely  wrong. 

"Could  he  write?" 

** Could  he  write?"  repeated  Mrs.  Bent. 

"Stories,  I  mean.  I  thought  that  perhaps  I  had 
inherited  my  talent  —  if  I  have  any  talent  —  from 
him.  I  thought  perhaps  he  had  written." 

"I  never  heard  anything  of  his  writing  stories." 
Mrs  Bent  was  folding  up  her  work  as  though  she 
planned  for  flight,  but  Eleanor  was  determined  that 
the  conversation  should  not  end. 

"Mother—" 

Mrs.  Bent  stood  upright. 

"  I  've  worked  for  you  and  slaved  for  you,"  said 
she  thickly.  With  her  flushed  face  and  her  eager- 
ness she  looked  as  she  had  looked  twenty  years 
before.  With  her  prettiness  something  else  returned, 
a  certain  vulgarity,  long  shed  away.  "You  have 
everything  you  need,  don't  you?" 

"Why,  mother!" 

"I've  given  up  enough  so  that  you  could  have 
things,  I  guess,  and  sewed  for  you  and  washed  and 
ironed  for  you,  and  — " 

"Oh,  mother,  don't!"  cried  Eleanor.  "I  didn't 
mean  to  worry  you,  I  only  thought  I  would  like  to 
know.  It's  a  sort  of  a  mystery." 

"It  ain't  no  mystery  to  me,"  said  Mrs.  Bent. 
Then  she  began  to  cry.  "I  hear  somebody  coming. 
Go  in  and  entertain  your  fine  beau  that  makes  you 
ashamed  of  your  mother!" 


154  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Eleanor  stood  appalled.  This  must  be  finished, 
talked  out. 

"Why,  mother,  I—" 

"There  is  some  one  on  the  porch,  I  tell  you!" 

Eleanor  listened.  Her  breath  came  in  a  sob.  Then 
she  went  to  answer  the  door.  Richard  was  there  with 
a  book.  He  stood  for  a  few  minutes  and  talked,  then 
he  sat  down  at  the  piano  and  opened  the  volume 
upon  the  rack. 

"I  have  exactly  thirty  minutes  to  stay,"  said  he. 
"Shall  we  play?" 

Eleanor  sat  down  beside  him,  her  hands  like  ice. 
As  well  play  as  sit,  dumbly. 

When  he  had  gone,  she  went  to  her  mother's 
closed  door.  She  did  not  mean  to  persist  in  her  in- 
quiries, her  soft  "Mother!"  asked  only  for  pardon. 
But  Mrs.  Bent  made  no  answer.  She  was,  however, 
not  asleep;  she  believed,  lying  exhausted  in  her 
little  iron  bed,  that  at  last,  after  years  of  fierce 
guarding  of  her  tongue,  she  had  done  for  herself. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

RICHARD  WRITES  A  NOTE 

Mrs.  Lister  was  relieved  in  mind  when,  from  day 
to  day,  Richard  said  no  more  about  the  choice  of  a 
profession.  What  he  was  to  be  was  not  as  important 
as  what  he  was  not  to  be.  Having  given  up  so 
easily  his  own  plans,  he  would,  she  was  certain, 
agree  with  whatever  plans  might  be  made  for  him. 
He  had  never  disobeyed  in  his  life  and  he  would 
not  disobey  now.  She  thought  with  comfort  of  his 
acquiescent  years. 

It  was  true  that  he  seemed  to  be  taking  a  little 
time  to  recover  from  the  defeat  of  his  plans,  but 
that  was  only  natural.  He  went  quietly  about  the 
house,  spending  most  of  the  day  in  his  own  room. 
When  he  was  away  for  a  whole  afternoon,  he  was 
of  course  with  Thomasina.  His  mother  determined 
not  even  to  ask  where  he  had  been.  She  smoothed 
his  bed  with  the  tenderest  of  touches,  she  fetched 
and  carried,  she  consulted  with  'Manda  about  the 
viands  which  he  liked  best. 

The  summer  took  on  once  more  its  normal  char- 
acter. The  Waltonville  ladies  gave  their  little  par- 
ties and  Mrs.  Scott  discovered  or  invented  new  de- 
vices for  the  sho wing-up  of  their  ignorance.  She 
had  always  been  tiresome  to  Mrs.  Lister  and  this 
summer  she  became  intolerable.  She  patterned  her 
conversation  after  that  of  Utterly,  happy  to  give 


156  BASIL  EVERMAN 

rein  to  an  inborn  tendency  to  gossip  and  to  make 
the  most  of  the  small  foibles  of  her  acquaintances, 
a  tendency  which  association  with  Thomasina  and 
Mrs.  Lister  had  somewhat  curbed. 

Never  had  Mrs.  Lister  had  to  endure  so  much  of 
her  society.  She  "  ran  in  "  in  the  mornings ;  she  called 
with  a  quiet  Cora  in  the  afternoons,  and  with  a  still 
more  silent  Dr.  Scott  in  the  evenings.  Always  she 
inquired  for  Richard.  Sometimes  she  asked  out- 
right; again  she  pretended  to  see  him  just  vanishing 
round  the  corner  of  the  hall.  She  thought  he  was  not 
well;  she  was  afraid  that  he  practiced  too  much  and 
took  too  little  physical  exercise;  she  wondered  what 
he  meant  to  do  with  himself  in  the  fall.  Walter,  she 
was  thankful  to  say,  had  had  no  difficulty  in  decid- 
ing upon  a  life-work. 

Presently  Mrs.  Lister  invited  Cora  to  supper  and 
Cora  came  gladly,  prettily  dressed  and  ready  with 
her  little  fund  of  small  talk.  It  seemed  as  though 
all  the  pleasant  characteristics  which  had  been  left 
out  of  Mrs.  Scott's  nature  had  been  given  her 
daughter.  Mrs.  Lister  thought  that  she  had  never 
seen  her  so  sweet. 

That  Richard  was  quite  unlike  himself  was  clear 
to  every  one.  He  answered  in  monosyllables;  he 
did  not  address  Cora  except  in  general  conversation; 
he  teased  no  one,  not  even  'Manda  who  waited  for 
some  comment  upon  her  biscuit;  and  after  supper, 
rising  suddenly,  he  pleaded  an  engagement  and 
went  away.  His  mother  was  stricken  numb  and 
dumb,  his  father  looked  astonished,  and  Cora's  eyes 
expressed  not  so  much  amazement  as  cruel  pain. 


RICHARD  WRITES  A  NOTE  157 

"Why,  Richard!"  cried  Mrs.  Lister. 

But  Richard  was  gone. 

It  was  Cora  who  recovered  most  quickly.  Dr. 
Lister  bUnked  for  a  second  before  answering  the 
question  which  she  promptly  put  to  him,  first  with 
amazement  at  Richard,  then  in  sympathy  with 
her  evident  astonishment  and  pain,  then  at  her 
question.  She  inquired  about  the  poHtics  of  modern 
Italy,  and  in  a  second,  he  answered  her  as  carefully 
as  he  would  have  answered  her  father.  Was  she 
interested  in  modern  Italy?  Cora  even  managed 
a  little  laugh  as  she  answered  that  it  was  the  inter- 
esting look  of  Italy  on  the  map  which  had  always 
attracted  her.  She  paid  Dr.  Lister  a  pretty  compli- 
ment about  his  teaching  at  which  he  flushed  with 
pleasure  and  carried  her  off  to  the  library.  If  poor 
Cora  wilted  a  little  after  her  first  instinctive  flash 
in  her  own  defense,  he  did  not  observe,  so  absorbed 
was  he  in  showing  her  his  books. 

Both  Dr.  and  Mrs.  Lister  walked  across  the 
campus  with  her  when  it  was  time  to  go  home, 
her  little  figure  proceeding  straight  and  slender  be- 
tween them.  She  now  talked  about  nothing,  though 
she  spoke  steadily  in  a  high,  clear  voice.  When 
they  reached  the  porch,  she  did  not  invite  them 
to  come  in. 

From  her  sitting-room  Mrs.  Scott  asked  where 
Richard  was. 

"He's — "for  an  instant  little  Cora  meant  to 
say,  "Richard  did  n't  come  in";  then  she  proceeded 
composedly  into  the  bright  light. 

"Dr.  and, Mrs.  Lister  brought  me  home." 


158  BASIL  EVERMAN 

i 

"Where  was  Richard?" 

"He  had  an  engagement." 

"An  engagement!  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  he 
was  n't  at  supper?" 

"Yes,  he  was  at  supper." 

"An  engagement  with  whom?" 

"I  didn't  ask.  Perhaps — "  Cora's  voice  failed 
her  for  a  second.  With  whom  in  Waltonville  could 
Richard  have  an  engagement  when  he  might  have 
been  with  her?  —  "perhaps  with  Miss  Thoma- 
sina." 

"An  engagement  with  Thomasina!  When  you 
were  there  to  supper!"  Mrs.  Scott's  ferret  eyes 
seemed  to  pierce  to  Cora's  soul.  "When  did  this 
engagement  begin?" 

"About  an  hour  ago." 

"Thomasina  is  a  fool,"  declared  Mrs.  Scott.Then 
she  repeated,  "a  fool." 

"Oh,  no,  mother!"  said  Cora  lightly.  "Good- 
night." 

She  went  up  the  stairs  with  an  even,  steady  step. 
At  the  top,  where  all  sound  was  lost  in  the  thick 
carpet,  she  stood  still,  her  hand  on  the  banister. 

"Nothing  dreadful  has  happened,"  said  she  to 
herself.  "  He  might  easily  have  gone  to  Miss  Thoma- 
sina's,  he's  so  crazy  about  music."  After  a  while 
she  said  again,  "Nothing  dreadful";  then  she  went 
into  her  room  and  closed  the  door,  and  all  dressed 
in  her  best  as  she  was,  lay  down  and  hid  her  face  in 
her  pillow. 

When  Richard  came  home  at  eleven  o'clock,  his 
father  and  mother  had  gone  to  bed.  He  heard  them 


RICHARD  WRITES  A  NOTE  159 

talking,  and  they  heard  him  come  in.  He  saw  his 
mother  standing  in  her  white  gown  at  her  door  as 
he  came  up  the  stairs.  She  had  determined  to  be 
patient  even  with  this  vagary. 

"Good-night,  Richard,"  said  she.  "Good-night, 
dariing." 

"Good-night,"  said  Richard. 

He  went  into  his  room,  and  for  the  first  time 
in  his  Hfe  turned  the  key  in  the  lock,  stealthily, 
slowly,  and  noiselessly.  When,  with  a  shaking  hand, 
he  had  lit  his  lamp,  he  sat  down  at  his  desk  and 
wrote  a  note  and  pinned  it  to  a  newspaper  clipping 
and  fastened  them  both  to  his  pincushion.  Then, 
his  hands  still  shaking,  he  undressed  and  blew  out 
his  light  and  lay  down  upon  his  bed.  His  cheeks 
were  scarlet,  his  hands  cold;  he  lay  motionless.  At 
this  moment  the  world  revolved  that  Richard 
might  be  happy,  stars  shone  to  light  his  way,  flow- 
ers bloomed  to  make  his  path  sweet,  streams  ran 
to  make  music  for  him.  Last  night  he  had  been 
unhappy,  worried,  uncertain  of  everything.  Now 
everything  was  different,  everything  was  glorified. 
No  one  had  ever  been  so  happy,  it  was  doubtful 
whether  any  one  could  ever  have  known  what 
happiness  was  before  this  transfigured  moment. 

He  had  not  meant  to  be  rude  to  Cora;  he  had 
scarcely  realized  even  yet  that  he  had  been  rude, 
and  still  less  had  he  meant  to  give  his  mother  pain. 
He  had  read  in  the  morning  paper,  his  eye  falling 
accidentally  upon  it  as  it  lay  on  the  arm  of  his 
father's  chair,  that  Henry  Faversham  was  to  be 
in  Baltimore  the  next  day,  and  he  had  to  tell 


160  BASIL  EVERMAN 

i 

Thomasina  —  that  was  all,  at  first.  His  mother 
would  not  have  accepted  this  excuse  for  leaving 
and  the  only  course  was  to  leave  without  excuse. 
He  had  so  little  to  say  to  Cora  and  she  had  so  little 
to  say  to  any  one,  that  time  spent  with  her  was 
wasted  unless  they  could  play,  and  playing  was  im- 
possible upon  the  aged  Lister  piano.  If  he  waited 
until  she  was  ready  to  go  home,  Thomasina  might 
have  gone  to  bed,  or  if  she  went  home  early,  Mrs. 
Scott  would  entrap  him  in  her  spidery  way.  He 
had  to  see  Thomasina,  so  he  rose  and  went. 

When,  excited  and  elated,  he  left  Thomasina, 
he  did  not  go  home.  He  had  a  letter  to  Henry 
Faversham;  he  had  certain  compositions  of  his  own 
which  she  had  selected;  he  had  the  recollection  of  a 
smooth  hand  on  either  cheek  and  a  light  kiss  on  his 
forehead. 

"Why,  Miss  Thomasina  is  young  1'^  said  Richard. 

He  did  not  go  home,  because  he  was  afraid  that 
he  might  find  Cora  still  there,  or  his  mother  might 
be  waiting  to  reprove  him.  He  was  determined  to 
endure  no  more  reproof,  to  take  part  in  no  more 
argument.  Argument  was  undignified  and  worse 
than  useless.  It  left  opponents  with  opinions  un- 
changed, but  deeply  offended  with  one  another;  it 
prevented  one  from  working  for  a  whole  day;  it 
numbed  one's  mind  and  paralyzed  one's  hand  and 
blinded  one's  eyes. 

So,  to  avoid  an  encounter  that  night,  Richard 
went  to  see  Eleanor  Bent.  He  had  to  see  Eleanor 
as  he  had  had  to  see  Thomasina.  It  was  after  nine 
o'clock  and  he  was  s^id^enly  frightened  lest  she 


RICHARD  WRITES  A  NOTE  161 

might  have  gone  to  bed,  and  he  took  a  short  cut 
down  a  lane  and  ran. 

Eleanor  came  promptly  to  the  door  and  then  out 
to  the  porch  in  the  soft  dark  night,  and  sat  down 
on  the  upper  step.  All  day  she  and  her  mother  had 
avoided  each  other's  eyes.  She  was  forlorn  and 
deeply  troubled. 

"No,  I  was  n't  thinking  of  bed.  I  have  always 
hated  to  go  to  bed." 

She  bent  forward  and  the  light  from  the  doorway 
shone  on  her  dark  hair  and  made  her  bright  eyes 
gleam,  and  the  little  breeze  which  blew  across  her 
to  Richard  brought  the  faint  scent  of  perfume.  Her 
voice  seemed  to  have  deepened  overnight  and  she 
spoke  with  a  little  tremolo  as  though  she  were  not 
quite  in  command  of  it. 

Richard  told  his  story,  at  once  calmed  and  further 
excited.  When  one  has  found  in  one  human  being 
both  stimulation  and  peace,  a  die  is  cast.  He  was 
going  to-morrow  to  Baltimore  to  see  Faversham 
and  arrange  for  his  winter's  work.  He  was  going 
to  play  for  him,  to  show  him  his  compositions.  It 
was  already  late  and  he  could  not  stay.  He  merely 
wanted  her  to  know,  to  think  of  him. 

Eleanor  leaned  a  little  toward  him. 

"Oh,  don't  go  yet,"  said  she,  her  voice  trembling. 
This,  it  seemed  to  her,  was  the  beginning  of  the  end. 

"I  must,"  said  Richard. 

"When  will  you  come  again?"  Would  he  ever 
come,  or  would  he  leave  her  to  watch  for  him,  day 
after  day,  to  do  nothing  but  watch  for  him.^  He  had 
already  risen;  it  was  possible  that  he  might  never 


162  Bi^IL  EVERMAN 

come  back.  She  was  filled  with  nameless  terror.  Her 
mother  — 

"You  look  sorry,"  said  Richard.  His  voice  was 
not  like  hers,  but  high  and  clear.  Thomasina  did 
not  guess  what  her  kiss  had  done  for  Richard.  He 
held  out  his  hand  and  Eleanor  took  it  and  rose. 

"I  am  sorry  because  you  are  going  away.  I 
have  n't  any  plans  except  to  stay  here.  I  am  not 
sure  that  I  can  write  any  more  and  the  winter  looks 
very  long.  I  ought  to  go  away,  but  I  don't  know 
just  how.  I  —  I  wish  you  were  going  to  be  here  to 
play  with  me  and  read  with  me  sometimes.  I  — " 

"Miss  Thomasina  is  here,"  said  Richard  lightly. 
"She  will  play  with  you." 

Eleanor  smiled,  but  she  seemed  to  shrink  within 
herself. 

Then  Richard  laughed  and  crossed  the  lane  of 
light  which  separated  them  and  put  his  arm  round 
her  shoulders  and  drew  her  back  into  the  deep  shad- 
ows. He  laid  his  hand  beneath  her  chin  and  tipped 
her  head  back  against  his  breast. 

"Do  you  love  me?"  asked  Richard. 

Eleanor  yielded  slowly  to  his  arm.  She  felt  his 
lips  on  her  cheek,  her  hair,  her  eyes,  at  first  lightly. 
Then  he  laughed  and  kissed  her  on  the  mouth. 

"Well.?"  said  he.  "Have  you  nothing  to  say?" 

Eleanor  lifted  her  hand  to  his  cheek. 

"Nothing,"  said  she. 

In  a  second  a  sound  from  within  doors  drove  them 
apart.  Eleanor  knew  that  her  mother  would  not 
appear,  but  already  Richard  stood  on  the  steps. 
He  would  bring  her  music,  he  said,  when  he  could 


RICHARD  WRITES  A  NOTE  163 

come  at  a  less  unearthly  hour.  This  evening  he  had 
come  out  for  a  walk  after  they  had  had  company. 
He  hoped  that  Mrs.  Bent  was  well.  It  was  strange 
that  all  of  yesterday's  rain  had  not  cleared  the  air. 
His  mother  prophesied  a  day  of  storms  to-morrow 
and  his  mother  always  knew. 

Now  Richard  lay  wide-eyed  upon  his  bed.  The 
soft  breeze  fanned  his  cheek  and  wafted  the  cur- 
tains like  waving  arms  into  the  room.  Toward 
morning  the  breeze  quickened  to  a  gale.  It  lifted  his 
note  and  newspaper  clipping  from  the  pincushion 
and  carried  them  across  to  the  farthest  corner 
under  the  bookcase.  By  this  time  he  was  asleep. 


CHAPTER  XIV 

AN  ANXIOUS  NIGHT 

In  the  morning  Richard  breakfasted  with  his  father 
and  mother.  The  breeze  had  died  down  and  the  day 
was  already  intensely  warm.  Mrs.  Lister  had  given 
a  large  part  of  the  night  to  thoughts  of  him  and 
her  pale  face  showed  the  effect  of  her  vigil.  She 
had  determined  upon  second  thought  that  his 
offense  could  not  be  overlooked,  and  for  the  first 
time  in  his  life  she  was  thoroughly  angry  with  him. 
He  had  not  only  offended,  but  he  had  caused  her 
to  offend  also.  She  could  not  forget  Cora's  brown, 
astonished  eyes.  If  it  had  been  Mrs.  Scott  to  whom 
he  had  been  rude,  she  might  have  found  an  excuse 
for  him.  But  only  the  most  wanton  cruelty  could 
hurt  Cora. 

Her  indignation  deepened,  when,  after  her  house- 
hold labors  were  finished,  she  could  not  find  the 
object  of  her  just  wrath.  He  was  not  in  his  room, 
nor  in  his  father's  study,  nor  on  the  porch,  and 
there  was  no  sound  from  the  chapel  organ  or  the 
assembly  room  piano.  She  had  prepared  her  re- 
proach and  she  wished  to  deliver  it  at  once. 

But  she  was  to  be  denied  still  longer  the  relief 
of  expression.  Richard  did  not  come  to  his  dinner. 
Occasionally  he  had  lunch  with  Thomasina,  to 
which  objection  was  made  only  when  dinner  had 
been  prepared  with  a  special  view  to  his  taste.  Mrs. 
Lister  always  missed  him  and  never  really  enjoyed 


AN  ANXIOUS  NIGHT  165 

a  meal  without  him,  but  she  felt  that  such  absences 
were  good  for  her,  since  they  helped  to  prepare  for 
the  day,  now  so  rapidly  approaching,  when  he 
would  go  away  altogether. 

This  was  not  a  propitious  time  for  him  to  absent 
himself,  not  only  because  his  mother  wished  to  see 
him,  but  because  'Manda  had  baked  waffles.  Mrs. 
Lister  could  eat  nothing  and  'Manda  scolded  about 
the  pains  she  had  taken  to  prepare  food  which  her 
"fambly"  would  not  touch. 

When  he  had  not  appeared  at  three  o'clock,  Mrs. 
Lister  passed  from  a  state  of  anger  into  one  of  acute 
anxiety.  She  could  not  rest,  could  not  lie  down, 
could  not  sew.  The  heat  was  intolerable.  She  sought 
her  husband  in  his  study. 

"Where  is  Richard?"  she  demanded. " What  has 
got  into  the  boy?  Last  evening  he  insulted  Cora 
Scott  by  walking  out  as  soon  as  he  had  had  his 
supper,  and  now  he  has  gone  away,  apparently  to 
stay  all  day,  without  saying  a  word  to  his  mother." 

Dr.  Lister  looked  up,  startled. 

"Has  n't  he  come?" 

"He  hasn't  been  here  since  eight  o'clock  this 
morning!" 

"He  can't  be  very  far  away."  x 

"But  where  is  he?" 

"Perhaps  with  Thomasina?" 

"Thomasina  lies  down  every  afternoon.  She'd 
send  him  home  if  he  had  n't  sense  enough  to  come. 
Besides,  I  think  she's  gone  away." 

"Perhaps  he's  in  the  chapel  or  the  assembly 
room,  practicing." 


166  B^SIL  EVERMAN 

"There  is  n't  a  sound  from  that  direction,  not  a 
sound.  I  Ve  sat  at  my  window  and  Hstened  and  lis- 
tened." Mrs.  Lister  began  to  cry. 

"But,  mother!  This  is  a  grown  man,  this  is  not  a 
child!" 

"He  is  a  child  in  his  father's  house.  He  owes  us 
respect  if  he's  fifty  years  old."  Mrs.  Lister  crossed 
the  room  and  looked  out  between  the  slats  of  the 
bowed  shutter  across  the  shimmering  campus. 
"There  are  thunderheads  above  the  trees  and"  — 
her  voice  took  on  a  tragic  tone  —  "Mrs.  Scott  is 
coming!" 

Dr.  Lister  rose  from  the  couch  where  he  had 
been  napping. 

"Shan't  I  excuse  you.^  It's  too  hot  to  see  any 
one,  least  of  all,  Mrs.  Scott." 

"No.  Richard  might  be  there.  Something  might 
have  happened  to  him  and  she  is  coming  to  tell 
us!" 

"Nothing  has  happened  to  him,  my  dear." 

Mrs.  Lister  met  Mrs.  Scott  at  the  door.  The  heat 
which  smote  her  face  as  she  opened  it  was  so  great 
that  she  urged  her  guest  to  come  quickly  into  the 
cool  parlor.  Surely  Mrs.  Scott  would  not  have  ven- 
tured out  unless  she  had  some  special  purpose! 
Perhaps  she  had  come  to  speak  about  Richard's 
behavior  to  Cora!  The  idea  was  fantastic,  but  it 
seemed  to  Mrs.  Lister  in  her  alarm  perfectly  reason- 
able. Or  she  might  pretend  to  know  nothing  about 
it,  yet  make  Mrs.  Lister  the  most  miserable  of 
human  beings. 

Mrs.  Scott  agreed  that  it  was  hot,  but  she  did 


AN  ANXIOUS  NIGHT  167 

not  continue  to  dwell  upon  the  weather  or  allow 
Mrs.  Lister  to  dwell  upon  it.  Even  to  Dr.  Lister, 
sitting  across  in  his  study  in  a  position  from  which 
he  could  see  neither  of  the  two  ladies  or  be  seen  by 
them,  it  was  plain  that  she  had  come  upon  business 
of  importance.  He  pictured  them  both,  Mary 
Alcestis,  large,  benign,  gentle,  and  slow  of  speech, 
Mrs.  Scott,  small,  eager,  ferret-like. 

He  heard  the  two  opening  sentences,  Mrs.  Lister's 
pleasant  compliment  to  Mrs.  Scott's  energy,  Mrs. 
Scott's  answering  boast  that  the  heat  could  not 
"throw  her  out  of  her  stride."  Her  voice  then  went 
on  and  on.  It  was  confidential  and  pleasant  enough 
in  tone  and  Dr.  Lister  could  not  understand  a  word, 
but  he  was  certain  that  she  was  worrying  Mrs. 
Lister.  It  was  undoubtedly  wrong  and  un-Chris- 
tian,  but  he  hated  her.  He  rose,  intending  to  cross 
the  hall  and  relieve  Mary  Alcestis  of  some  of  the 
burden  of  conversation. 

Then  he  stood  still  by  his  desk.  The  softly  mur- 
muring voice  rose  to  a  tone  approximating  that  in 
which  Mrs.  Scott  addressed  her  family. 

"I  thought  you  would  want  to  know  it,  Mrs. 
Lister.  I  thought  you  ought  to  know  it." 

"I  did  n't  understand  exactly  what  you  said." 

"I  said  that  your  Richard  had  been  visiting 
morning,  noon,  and  night,  since  Commencement, 
Eleanor  Bent,"  repeated  Mrs.  Scott.  "I  said  that 
people  thought  it  very  strange  that  Dr.  Lister's  son 
should  devote  his  time  to  her.  He  plays  duets  with 
her  on  a  beautiful  new  piano  that  dear  knows  where 
she  got,  and  her  mother  sits  by  watching  them. 


168  BASIL  EVERMAN 

I  guess  she  has  her  own  intentions.  The  piano  must 
have  cost  a  thousand  dollars." 

Promptly  and  smoothly  came  Mrs.  Lister's 
answer. 

*'I  have  heard  Thomasina  say  often  that  Miss 
Bent  plays  very  well.  And  he  is  not  there  morning, 
noon,  and  night,  as  you  say,  Mrs.  Scott.  He  is  here 
almost  all  the  time.  And  after  all"  —  the  pause 
between  Mrs.  Lister's  words  suggested  to  her  hus- 
band a  straight  gaze  and  a  head  somewhat  lifted  — 
'*  after  all,  it  is  Richard's  affair,  is  n't  it,  and  not 
any  one  else's?" 

Mrs.  Scott  was  too  astonished  to  answer.  She 
was  furious  at  Richard  and  almost  as  angry  at  Cora, 
who,  when  informed,  would  say  nothing  about  his 
visits  to  Eleanor  except  that  he  was  his  own  master. 
She  had  expected  that  Mrs.  Lister  would  grow 
deathly  white  and  perhaps  faint. 

"I  should  dislike  to  have  my  Walter  show  any 
attention  to  a  person  in  such  an  anomalous  posi- 
tion," said  she,  rising.  "I  came  out  of  the  kindness 
of  my  heart." 

*'I  don't  know  what  you  mean  by  an  'anomalous 
position,'"  said  Mrs.  Lister,  rising  also.  "I  am  sure 
Mrs.  Bent  and  her  daughter  are  very  quiet,  retiring 
people." 

She  went  with  Mrs.  Scott  to  the  door  and  let  her 
out  into  the  burning  sunshine.  She  did  not  return 
to  the  study,  but  went  directly  to  her -room.  Dr. 
Lister  sat  for  a  few  minutes  with  his  pen  p>oised 
over  his  paper,  then,  when  she  did  not  return,  he 
began  a  letter.  He  was  amused  at  Mrs.  Scott's 


AN  ANXIOUS  NIGHT  169 

feline  retaliation  and  was  grateful  to  the  gods  for 
having  given  him  a  Mary  Alcestis.  There  was 
nothing  to  be  distressed  about  in  the  fact  that 
Richard  played  duets  with  Eleanor  Bent,  who  was 
a  bright,  pretty  girl.  He  said  to  himself  vaguely 
that  if  the  young  rascal  did  n't  come  home  soon,  he 
would  go  and  fetch  him.  Hearing  a  low  rumble  of 
thunder,  he  rejoiced  that  a  change  of  temperature 
was  at  hand. 

Richard  did  not  come  home  to  supper.  Mrs. 
Lister  ate  nothing  and  made  no  pretense  of  eating. 
The  rumbling  of  thunder  continued,  growing  loud 
very  gradually,  as  though  the  storm  were  only 
slowly  gathering  force.  She  rose  from  the  table  and 
went  from  window  to  window,  not  so  much  to  see 
whether  they  were  securely  fastened  as  to  look  out 
in  every  direction.  There  was  still  the  vividly  blue 
sky  in  all  quarters  but  the  northwest,  where  there 
was  a  low,  but  slowly  rising,  bank  of  dark  cloud 
with  white-tipped  thunderheads  above  it. 

She  grew  more  and  more  pale,  more  and  more 
wretched.  Her  anxiety  seemed  to  weigh  down  her 
cheeks  and  add  ten  years  to  her  age.  Richard  must 
have  been  hurt ;  he  might  have  gone  for  a  walk  and 
have  fallen  and  be  lying  somewhere  helpless. 

"But  there  is  n't  any  place  to  fall  from,  mother!" 
said  Dr.  Lister,  now  as  anxious  as  she. 

Presently,  as  the  sky  grew  darker  and  the  thun- 
der louder,  she  wept. 

"I  will  go  to  Thomasina's,"  said  Dr.  Lister,  "and 
I'll  stop  at  Dr.  Green's  and  — " 

"Do  not  ask  them  any  questions!"  cried  Mrs. 


170  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Lister.  "Do  not  let  them  know!  People  will  get  to 
talking!" 

**But,  mother,  we  must  find  him!" 

"I  cannot  have  any  one  know  that  Richard  does 
not  obey  us,"  insisted  Mary  Alcestis.  "You  can 
look  in  at  the  window.  Thomasina's  curtains  are 
always  up  to  the  sky  and  Dr.  Green  has  n't  any  in 
his  front  office." 

Dr.  Lister  put  on  a  raincoat  and  took  an  um- 
brella and  started  out  against  the  high  wind.  The 
search  seemed  unreal,  weird,  impossible.  Richard 
was  not  at  Thomasina's,  for  the  house  was  dark, 
and  Dr.  Green  was  alone.  Dr.  Lister  went  to  the 
assembly  room  and  to  the  chapel  and  to  all  the 
rooms  of  the  recitation  building.  He  stood  in  the 
doorway  of  each  one  until  a  bright  flash  of  lightning 
or  several  flashes  had  illuminated  each  corner.  At 
the  door  of  Dr.  Scott's  study  he  knocked.  Within, 
Dr.  Scott  sat  at  the  window  watching  the  wide 
valley  magically  illuminated  by  the  flashing  light, 
which  was  now  rosy,  now  bright  blue.  He  had  seen 
nothing  of  Richard.  Dr.  Lister  said  that  he  had 
brought  Richard  an  umbrella  thinking  that  he  was 
here.  He  supposed  that  by  now  he  was  at  home. 
Under  the  first  heavy  drops  of  rain,  he  hurried  back 
to  his  house. 

As  he  neared  the  porch,  the  sight  of  a  figure 
approaching  from  the  opposite  direction,  or,  rather, 
being  blown  from  the  opposite  direction,  startled 
and  relieved  him. 

"Richard!"  said  he. 

He  saw  to  his  amazement  that  the  figure  was 


AN  ANXIOUS  NIGHT  171 

not  that  of  Richard,  but  the  broader  form  of  his 
mother. 

"I  thought  I  would  look  for  him,"  she  gasped, 
blown  finally  to  the  porch  step  and  there  firmly 
seized  by  her  husband.  "I  couldn't  stay  in  the 
house  and  do  nothing." 

"Where  have  you  been.'^" 

"I  thought  he  might  be  about  s-s-some where. 
I  went  to  see."  She  quickened  her  steps.  "Perhaps 
he  is  here.  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  has  come  home!" 

But  he  had  not  come  home.  His  mother  called 
as  she  opened  the  door  and  was  answered  only 
by  a  faint  echo  from  the  upper  story.  She  walked 
with  tottering  step  into  the  study  and  sat  down 
and  smoothed  her  hair  back  into  its  proper  place. 
Her  face  was  contorted,  her  lips  trembling.  Dr. 
Lister  laid  his  hand  on  her  shoulder. 

"My  dear,  you  are  so  strange!  What  is  back  of 
this?  Had  you  any  words  with  him  about  any- 
thing?" 

Mrs.  Lister  laid  her  hands  palm  upward  on  her 
lap.  With  a  start  at  each  new  roll  of  thunder  she 
began  to  speak.  The  first  words  made  her  husband 
frown;  they  had  long  been  the  sign  and  signal  of 
trouble.  As  he  listened,  he  grew  amazed,  then  sick 
at  heart. 

"My  brother  Basil — "  Mrs.  Lister  paused  and 
looked  dumbly  at  her  husband. 

"Yes,  my  dear — " 

"My  brother  Basil  left  us  to  —  to  follow  the 
daughter  of  the  village  tavern-keeper.  That  was 
the  last  straw,  that  was  what  worked  on  my 


172  B/SIL  EVERMAN 

father's  health  and  finally  killed  him.  He  never  saw 
Basil  again.  You've  said  to  me  so  often  that  Basil 
was  past,  that  we  need  n't  think  of  him  or  trouble 
about  him  or  break  our  hearts  over  him.  But  he 
is  not  past.  Nothing  ever  is.  You  cannot  get  away 
from  the  things  you  do  and  that  other  people  do. 
They  keep  on  forever,  from  generation  to  genera- 
tion." 

"  Mary  Alcestis,  tell  me  plainly  what  you  mean ! " 

"It  was  this  woman  who  calls  herself  Mrs.  Bent 
whom  he  followed  away.  Her  name  was  Margie 
Ginter." 

Dr.  Lister  drew  up  a  chair  and  sat  down  by 
Mrs.  Lister. 

"How  much  of  this  is  suspicion.^  How  much  do 
you  really  know?" 

Mrs.  Lister  started  again.  The  storm  increased 
in  intensity  without  breaking.  The  rain  fell  in  slow, 
heavy  drops,  audible  as  they  struck  the  roof  of  the 
porch.  Her  voice,  on  a  high  and  monotonous  key, 
seemed  to  fill  the  house. 

"She  lived  here  at  the  tavern.  It  was  a  terrible 
place.  People  who  keep  places  of  that  kind  pay 
some  attention  to  public  opinion  now,  but  they 
did  n't  then.  We  found  that  he  went  there  —  my 
father  thought  it  was  to  drink.  Then  one  evening  I 
came  upon  them,  him  and  the  girl,  on  Cherry  Street 
in  the  dark,  walking  together  under  the  thick  trees. 
1  was  not  often  out  alone  in  the  evening,  but  it 
seemed  that  this  had  to  happen.  I  heard  her  talking 
to  Basil  and  I  told  my  father.  In  a  little  while  they 
left  here,  and  then  he  went  also." 


AN  ANXIOUS  NIGHT  173 

"Do  you  mean  that  your  father  could  compel 
them  to  leave?" 

"No,  I  think  they  were  just  going.  And  Basil 
went  too." 

"And  then.?" 

"Then,  afterwards,  he  died.  And  she  came  back 
here,  brazenly,  with  a  little  child  and  a  married 
name.  Once  she  spoke  to  me  on  the  street.  She 
said  she  would  like  to  talk  to  me  about  him,  but 
I  told  her  I  could  n't.  1  had  Richard  with  me  in  the 
coach  and  it  was  right  out  in  the  open  street.  I  was 
afraid  to  go  out  for  weeks." 

"Did  she  ever  make  any  other  effort  to  speak 
to  you.?" 

"No;  she  seemed  afraid." 

"But  if  what  you  think  is  true,  the  girl  should  be 
older  than  she  is!  It  can't  be,  mother! " 

"I  believe  that  she  is  older  than  she  says.  How 
else  should  she  have  got  ahead  of  our  Richard  in 
school.?  That  is  the  only  way  to  account  for  it." 

Dr.  Lister  remembered  the  astonishing  maturity 
of  Eleanor's  mind. 

"And  I  know  what  my  eyes  tell  me!"  cried  Mrs. 
Lister.  "Her  eyes  are  Basil's  eyes.  It  was  her  eyes 
Mr.  Utterly  was  thinking  of  when  he  saw  Basil's 
picture.  I  laiew  it.  Her  walk  is  his.  She  is  Basil  over 
again.  For  all  these  years  I  have  had  to  look  at  her 
in  church  and  on  the  street.  I  had  begun  to  feel  a 
little  safe  because  I  thought  that  now  she  might 
go  away.  Then  this  man  came  with  his  hateful 
inquiries." 

"Poor  Mary  Alcestis!" 


174  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"  I  could  n't  forbid  her  to  go  to  college.  I  could  n't 
do  anything  but"  —  Mrs.  Lister  now  broke  down 
completely  —  "but  watch  and  pray." 

"And  you  never  told  me!" 

"I  could  n't  tell  any  one  about  Basil.  If  you  had 
known  what  a  sweet  little  boy  he  was,  perhaps  I 
could  have  told  you.  And  Richard  —  oh,  Richard, 
Richard!" 

"I  heard  Mrs.  Scott." 

"I  went  there  to  look  for  him." 

"To  the  Bents'!" 

"Yes,  through  all  the  lanes.  It  was  quite  dark 
and  no  one  saw  me.  But  I  fell  once;  I  was  so  excited 
and  the  lane  was  rough.  Miss  Bent  and  her  mother 
were  sitting  together  like  innocent  people,  but  he 
was  not  there.  I  said  to  myseK  that  if  he  was 
I  would  go  in  and  bring  him  home." 

"But,  mother,  this  about  Richard  is  imagination 
run  mad!" 

"All  the  dreadful  things  I  ever  imagined  came 
true.  When  he  sits  at  the  piano,  he  looks  like  Basil. 
It's  something  in  them,  it  —  Hark!" 

Dr.  Lister  sprang  up  and  went  to  the  door.  As 
he  opened  it  the  wind  set  the  flame  of  the  lamps 
quivering.  There  was  a  shrill,  wailing  sound. 
•    "What  is  it.^"  cried  Mrs.  Lister. 

"Nothing  but  the  wind,"  answered  Dr.  Lister, 
his  own  nerves  badly  shaken.  He  came  back  into 
the  study.  "Mrs.  Scott  exaggerates  till  she  lies. 
Suppose  he  has  gone  there  to  play  for  a  few  hours ! 
They  are  both  pupils  of  Thomasina's." 
-  "Thomasina's  ideas  are  all  wrong  —  about  every- 


AN  ANXIOUS  NIGHT  175 

thing y'  said  Mrs.  Lister.  "She  never  had  a  brother 
or  a  child,  she  has  had  no  experience.  She  puts  a 
higher  value  on  talent  than  on  the  Ten  Command- 
ments. Where  is  Richard?"  She  sprang  up.  Her  cry 
was  lost  in  the  breaking  of  the  storm.  "This  very 
house  is  rocking!" 

Dr.  Lister  drew  her  down  once  more  beside  him. 

"At  this  moment  we  can  do  nothing  but  wait." 

"I've  gone  through  this  misery  before,"  said  she 
piteously.  "It  is  n't  new  to  me." 

Dr.  Lister  tried  to  persuade  her  to  lie  down,  but 
she  would  not  stir.  The  storm  reached  a  climax, 
seemed  to  recede,  and  advanced  in  greater  fury. 
Silently,  hand  in  hand,  the  two  waited. 


CHAPTER  XV 

EXPLANATIONS 

By  midnight,  when  the  fury  of  the  storm  had 
abated,  there  was  still  no  Richard.  Mrs.  Lister 
would  not  hear  of  going  to  bed,  but  sat  stiffly  upon 
the  sofa  in  the  study  or  wandered  through  the 
house.  With  a  candle  she  explored  the  third  story, 
venturing  even  into  the  tank  room  where  the  dim 
light  cast  flickering  shadows  on  the  brown  un- 
finished walls  and  ceiling.  She  remembered  with 
horror  the  old  story  of  the  bride  locked  into  a 
chest  and  found  mouldering  after  many  years,  and 
a  more  recent  and  sentimental  tale  of  a  young 
woman,  who,  discovering  that  she  was  merely  the 
foster  child  of  her  parents,  fell  fainting  to  the  floor 
before  the  old  trunk  into  which  she  had  been  pry- 
ing, and  there  remained  until  she  was  accidentally 
stumbled  upon.  Mrs.  Lister  did  not  climb  the  pro- 
jecting beam  and  look  into  the  tank  —  that  mad- 
ness she  forbade  herself. 

She  went  into  Richard's  room  and  opened  dis- 
tractedly the  cupboard  door,  then  laid  back  the 
covers  on  tlie  bed  as  she  had  always  laid  back 
Richard's  covers,  every  night  of  his  life. 

As  Dr.  Lister  sat  beside  her,  he  heard  the  whole 
story  of  Basil  Everman,  and  his  first  puritanic  dis- 
approval of  Basil's  course  gave  place  to  protesting 
amazement. 


EXPLANATIONS  177 

"Something  within  him  seemed  to  impel  him  to 
do  wrong  things,"  said  Mrs.  Lister.  "It  wasn't 
that  he  did  n't  love  us.  I  am  convinced  that  he  loved 
us  dearly.  But  he  had  to  have  his  own  way!'' 

'''Had  to  have  his  own  way  !"'  Dr.  Lister  repeated 
the  words  to  himself.  His  own  way,  which  led  him 
to  "Roses  of  Psestum"  and  "Bitter  Bread"!  If 
they  had  only  let  him  have  his  own  way,  unmo- 
lested, or  had  helped  him  to  it,  poor  Basil  might 
not  have  turned  into  this  unpleasant  by-path. 

Certainly  the  friendship  between  Richard  and 
Eleanor  Bent  must  end.  Could  there  be  any  serious 
feeling  between  them.^^  With  this  new  light  upon  the 
girl's  mental  inheritance  and  with  quickened  recol- 
lection of  her  as  she  had  sat  in  his  classes,  came 
deeper  alarm. 

There  were  moments  when  Mrs.  Lister,  in  her 
fright  and  exhaustion,  seemed  to  confuse  Basil  and 
Richard.  Basil  had  been  out  in  such  storms;  she 
had  waited  and  watched  for  him  all  night  long.  He 
had  been  gone  not  only  all  night,  but  days  and 
nights.  Sometimes  he  had  been  almost  within  call, 
but  he  had  insisted  upon  watching  the  storms.  He 
was  sorry  to  have  troubled  them,  but  he  would  not 
change  any  of  his  idle,  purposeless  ways. 

She  had  tried  and  her  father  had  tried  to  find  a 
precedent  for  Basil,  but  in  vain. 

"I  never  heard  of  any  one  so  strange  and  willful 
but  Mr.  Poe,  until  Mr.  Utterly  told  those  dreadful 
stories.  And  now  Richard  is  —  is  like  them!" 

"Did  Basil  never  announce  his  departures?" 

"He  knew  that  my  father  would  forbid  him 


178  ^ASIL  EVERMAN 

wasting  his  time  in  idleness  and  wandering.  He 
knew  that  my  father  would  prevent  him.  So  he 
simply  went." 

At  one  o'clock  and  at  two  o'clock  there  was  still 
no  Richard.  The  house  assumed  a  different  appear- 
ance after  the  customary  hour  for  retiring.  The 
high  ceilings  seemed  in  some  strange  fashion  to  rise, 
the  walls  to  expand,  the  shadows  to  darken.  An- 
other storm  approached,  broke  over  Waltonville, 
and  died  away.  Mrs.  Lister,  selecting  a  darkened 
window,  looked  out  and  saw  that  the  Scotts  were 
stirring.  Her  anger  with  Mrs.  Scott  almost  suffo- 
cated her.  Poor  Mary  Alcestis  was  not  created  to 
bear  heroic  passions. 

Again  and  again  Dr.  Lister  begged  her  to  rest. 

"You  will  be  utterly  worn  out.  Richard  will  not 
come  any  sooner  because  you  wait  for  him." 

"But  where  can  he  be?"  wailed  Mary  Alcestis. 

Dr.  Lister  determined  that  at  dawn  he  would  set 
forth,  make  a  round  of  the  village  and  all  the  neigh- 
boring walks,  and  then  go  to  Thomasina  Davis's 
and  take  counsel  with  her.  If  Richard  had  not  come 
by  eight  o'clock,  his  disappearance  must  be  made 
public.  He  could  have  no  reason  for  going  away 
and  search  could  be  no  longer  postponed.  Having 
acknowledged  this  to  himself,  Dr.  Lister  became  as 
much  a  victim  of  terror  as  his  wife.  There  had  never 
been  a  more  obedient  son;  to  attribute  callous  indif- 
ference to  him  was  wicked.  That  he  could  thought- 
lessly or  intentionally  have  brought  upon  them  such 
cruel  anxiety  was  unthinkable.  In  his  distress  Dr. 
Lister  began  to  tramp  up  and  down  the  long  study. 


EXPLANATIONS  179 

Then,  at  last,  as  dawn  was  breaking,  Richard 
came  home.  In  the  study  the  watchers  still  sat  with 
the  shades  drawn,  not  realizing  that  outside  a  gray 
light  was  already  exhibiting  the  ruin  wrought  in 
the  night.  The  smooth  grass  was  strewn  with 
branches  and  twigs,  the  cannas  lay  flat,  gardens 
were  flooded,  and  at  the  campus  gate  a  tree  lay 
across  the  street. 

At  the  first  click  of  the  latch  Mrs.  Lister  screamed, 
then  held  her  hand  across  her  lips.  Nervous  strength 
had  forsaken  her.  But  she  gathered  herself  together 
and  Dr.  Lister,  watching  her,  failed  to  see  the  en- 
trance of  the  prodigal.  Her  form  stiffened,  the 
distress  on  her  face  altered  to  a  stern  and  savage 
disapproval.  She  looked  suddenly  and  uncannily 
like  the  portrait  of  the  austere  old  man  above  her 
head.  The  night's  vigil  seemed  to  have  removed 
the  plumpness  which  disguised  her  physical  resem- 
blance to  her  father  and  her  indignation  destroyed 
the  placid  good  nature  which  was  her  usual  mood. 
She  felt  no  weak  impulse  to  throw  herself  upon  her 
son's  shoulder  or  to  reinforce  her  maternal  influence 
by  any  appeal  to  his  affection. 

When  he  entered,  bedraggled,  wet,  black  with 
railroad  dust,  he  saw,  first  of  all,  his  mother,  sitting 
like  a  judge  before  him.  He  saw  his  father  also,  but 
his  father  seemed  as  usual  a  little  indifferent  to  him 
and  his  needs,  and  even  to  this  adventure. 

"Mother!"  he  cried  from  the  doorway. 

Mrs.  Lister  did  not  answer.  That  the  boy  was 
amazed,  that  he  could  not  account  for  their  waiting 
presence  was  evident,  but  she  did  not  help  him  to 


180  BASIL  EVERMAN 

straighten  out  the  puzzHng  situation  in  which  he 
found  himself. 

*'You  have  been  up  all  night!" 

Mrs.  Lister  allowed  the  evident  truth  of  this  as- 
sertion to  serve  for  an  answer.  She  felt  as  though 
she  could  never  speak,  as  though  her  throat  were 
paralyzed,  her  tongue  dead  in  her  mouth.  A  lover, 
hearing  his  mistress  explain  her  faithlessness,  could 
have  been  no  more  powerless  to  express  the  sense 
of  injury  within  him.  There  was  a  great  gulf  be- 
tween her  and  her  son,  who  till  this  moment  had 
seemed  almost  as  much  a  part  of  her  as  he  was 
in  the  months  preceding  his  birth. 

Richard  sat  down  inside  the  door. 

"You  did  n't  get  my  message,  then.?^" 

Still  she  did  not  speak. 

"What  message,  Richard .f^"  asked  Dr.  Lister. 
"We  have  had  no  message.  We  only  knew  that  you 
vanished  yesterday  after  breakfast." 

"I  found  I  had  to  go,"  explained  Richard.  Then 
he  paused.  His  words  sounded  as  strange  to  him  as 
to  his  parents.  "I  wrote  a  note  telling  you  where 
I  was  going  and  I  fastened  it  to  my  pincushion 
where  I  was  certain  mother  would  find  it.  I 
missed  the  train  home,  and  I  came  on  the  freight 
and  it  was  delayed.  I  tried  to  telegraph,  but  the 
wires  were  down.  Did  n't  you  find  my  note, 
mother  .f^" 

"There  was  no  note  on  your  pincushion,"  said 
Mrs.  Lister  in  a  hollow  voice. 

Richard  turned  and  ran  up  the  steps.  The  two 
waiting  below  could  hear  him  throw  up  the  blinds. 


EXPLANATIONS  181 

He  descended  in  his  fashion,  three  steps  at  a  time, 
carrying  two  bits  of  paper  in  his  hand. 

"There,  mother,  they  were  under  the  edge  of 
the  bookcase!  They  must  have  blown  there.  I  am 
so  sorry  that  you  have  been  anxious."  His  voice 
trembled,  his  father  saw  that  he  was  almost  ex- 
hausted. 

Mrs.  Lister  did  not  lift  the  papers  from  her  lap 
where  he  laid  them.  In  the  confusion  of  her  mind, 
one  intention  was  firm.  She  would  not  learn  his 
excuse  from  any  paper. 

"But,  Richard — "  Dr.  Lister,  returning  to  the 
comfortable  habits  of  every  day,  changed  his  right 
knee  for  his  left.  "Why  did  you  go  away  and  where 
did  you  go.^" 

Richard  straightened  his  shoulders. 

"I  heard  that  Henry  Faversham  was  to  be  in 
Baltimore  for  a  few  days  and  yesterday  I  saw  in 
the  paper  that  he  had  come.  I  knew  that  he  ac- 
cepted no  pupils  without  having  first  heard  them 
play,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  better  to  see  him 
in  Baltimore  than  to  make  the  long  trip  to  New 
York.  Miss  Thomasina  had  written  him  about  me 
and  had  given  me  a  letter  to  him,  and  I  expected 
certainly  to  go  down  and  back  in  a  day.  Mother, 
of  course  she  did  n't  know  that  I  had  gone  without 
telling  you !  You  know  she  would  have  told  you  her- 
self rather  than  have  that  happen." 

Dr.  Lister  cleared  his  throat. 

"But,  Richard,  has  it  been  our  custom  to  com- 
municate with  one  another  by  newspaper  slips  or 
written  notes  .'^" 


182  ^ASIL  EVERMAN 

"No,"  said  Richard.  He  drew  a  deeper  breath 
and  looked  his  father  in  the  eyes.  "I  could  n't  have 
any  argument  about  it,  father.  I  had  to  go.  There 
was  no  time  for  argument.  I  thought  it  would  be 
easier  for  everybody  if  I  just  went.  I  am  deeply 
sorry  that  you  had  this  anxiety.  I  didn't  mean 
you  should." 

Mrs.  Lister  saw  the  pleading  eyes,  heard  the 
pleading  voice,  saw  the  even  more  eloquent  grime 
and  the  white,  streaked  cheeks,  but  she  made  no 
affectionate  sign  of  yielding,  no  tender  motion  to 
her  son  to  come  to  that  bosom  which  had  thus  far 
been  a  pillow  for  all  his  troubles.  Hereditary  mo- 
tives were  no  less  strong  in  her  than  in  her  son. 

"Please,  mother!" 

"You'd  better  get  a  bath  and  go  to  bed." 

For  the  sake  of  saving  his  life,  Richard  could  not 
have  kept  his  lips  from  quivering. 

"When  did  you  have  anything  to  eat,  my  boy.^" 
asked  Dr.  Lister. 

"I'm  not  himgry,"  answered  Richard  steadily. 

"But  how  lately  have  you  eaten .'^" 

"Not  very  lately,"  confessed  Richard.  "I  did  n't 
think  much  about  eating  yesterday."  For  an  in- 
stant his  face  was  lightened  by  pleasant  recollection. 
"I'm  really  not  hungry.  Please,  mother,  don't 
bother!  You  ought  to  go  to  bed;  you're  more  tired 
than  I." 

Mrs.  Lister  paid  no  heed  to  Richard's  protests. 
She  went  to  the  kitchen  and  filled  a  tray  and  car- 
ried it  upstairs.  Wlien  he  came  from  his  bath,  he 
found  it  there  and  ate,  like  a  criminal  in  his  cell. 


EXPLANATIONS  183 

Then  with  a  long  sigh,  he  lay  down.  He  threw  his 
arm  round  the  unused  pillow  beside  his  own  on  his 
broad  bed  and  smiled.  He  heard  for  an  instant 
heavenly  harmonies,  then  he  was  asleep. 

Even  now  that  Richard  had  come  home,  Mrs. 
Lister  would  not  lie  down.  She  changed  her  dress 
for  her  usual  morning  apparel  and  put  away  the 
remains  of  his  breakfast  which  he  had  placed  on  a 
chair  outside  his  door,  so  that  'Manda  might  not 
suspect  the  strange  doings  of  the  night,  then  she 
went  into  the  study.  Dr.  Lister  lay  on  the  couch. 
When  she  entered,  he  opened  his  eyes  for  a  second, 
then  closed  them  again,  and  she  sat  down  and 
waited.  In  a  little  while,  as  though  the  tremendous 
disturbance  of  her  mind  was  transferred  through 
the  still  air  to  his  sleepy  brain,  he  opened  his  eyes 
wide  and  sat  bolt  upright. 

"Yes,  yes,  my  dear!  What  is  it?" 

Mrs.  Lister  made  no  apology  for  any  telepathic 
means  by  which  she  might  have  awakened  him.  It 
was  his  business  to  be  awake. 

"This  thing  must  be  settled,  Thomas." 

From  the  vague  borderland  of  sleep,  Dr.  Lister 
tried  honestly  and  vainly  to  understand  just  what 
must  be  settled. 

"What  thing,  mother?" 

Mrs.  Lister  gave  him  a  look  in  which  astonish- 
ment and  impatience  were  mingled. 

"Richard  can't  have  anything  to  do  with  this 
girl;  he  can't  play  with  her,  or  see  her.  or  talk  to 
her;  it  is  n't  decent  or  right." 

"You  mean  he  must  be  told  about  Basil?"  Dr. 


184  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Lister  remembered  now  the  events  and  revelations 
of  the  night. 

"It  must  be  stopped.  Everything  must  be 
stopped.  Our  child  must  do  what  is  right." 

The  revelations  of  the  night  seemed  to  Dr.  Lister 
like  illusions. 

"You  are  sure  of  all  you  told  me,  mother?" 

"I  am  sure." 

"Do  you  know  where  they  went  after  they  left 
here  —  the  girl  and  her  father,  I  mean?" 

"We  heard  it  was  a  little  town  in  Ohio  called 
Marysville." 

"You  never  caused  any  inquiry  to  be  made 
there?" 

"Oh,  no!" 

"Basil  was  n't  with  them  when  he  died,  was  he?  " 

"No." 

"We  can't  do  anything  at  this  minute.  We'll 
have  to  learn  whether  Richard  has  gone  any  farther 
than  to  play  the  piano  a  few  times  with  this  young 
lady  and  I  '11  find  out  about  these  plans  and  inten- 
tions of  his." 

"His  plans  and  intentions ! "  repeated  Mrs.  Lister. 

"He's  old  enough  to  have  them,  my  dear.  I  think 
we'd  better  let  him  have  his  music,  don't  you?" 

Mrs.  Lister  gave  her  husband  another  long,  level, 
and  astonished  glance.  Then  she  sought  her  own 
room. 

Richard  came  downstairs  for  lunch,  white  and 
with  dark-rimmed  eyes.  But  he  was  clean  and  his 
eyes  shone.  Faversham  had  accepted  him,  had  said 
he  would  be  glad  to  have  him.    He  had  sent  mes- 


EXPLANATIONS  185 

sages  to  Miss  Thomasina;  he  had  said  a  hundred 
things  which  she  must  hear  at  once. 

"He  talked  about  her  as  though  he  were  in  love 
with  her,"  thought  Richard  whose  thoughts  ran  in 
one  channel. 

Faversham  had  played  for  him,  had  talked  about 
Beethoven  and  John  Sebastian  Bach.  Faversham 
had  heard  and  had  torn  up  his  small  compositions 
and  had  put  them  into  the  wastebasket,  smiling. 

"You  don't  want  those  to  appear  in  collections 
of  your  works,  my  boy!"  he  had  said. 

Richard  would  not  have  exchanged  places  with 
the  Queen  of  England,  or  the  Czar  of  all  the  Rus- 
sias,  who  still  held  enviable  positions  in  those  days, 
or  with  any  great  character  of  history  past  or  pres- 
ent. As  for  the  future,  he  intended  to  be  one  of  the 
great  characters. 

And  there  was  sweet  Eleanor,  waiting,  perhaps 
even  at  this  instant,  for  him  to  come  up  the  little 
walk. 

If  he  could  only  tell  his  father  and  mother  now 
about  Henry  Faversham  and  all  the  things  that  he 
had  said!  He  must  make  them  see  that  music  was 
the  breath  of  life  to  him;  that  he  must  be  a  musician, 
could  be  nothing  else. 

But  he  would  not  make  them  try  to  see  now.  His 
mother's  features  were  too  tense,  her  disapproval 
too  evident,  his  own  voice  too  tremulous.  He  would 
stay  at  home  in  the  early  part  of  the  evening  and 
explain  to  them,  persuade  them.  Now  he  must  find 
hungrier  ears  than  theirs. 

As  Richard  pushed  back  his  chair,  Mrs.  Lister's 


186  BASIL  EVERMAN 

i 

eyes  sought  her  husband's,  and  thus  prompted, 
he  asked  his  son,  a  Httle  unwiUingly,  where  he  was 
going. 

"I  am  going  to  Miss  Thomasina's." 

"And  after  that?  "  Mrs.  Lister  was  not  quite  sure 
whether  she  had  asked  the  question,  or  whether  he 
had  announced  his  plans  in  defiance. 

"Afterwards  I  am  going  to  play  duets  with 
Eleanor  Bent."  He  did  not  mean  to  say  exactly  that. 
In  both  him  and  his  mother  forces  were  operating 
which  carried  them  farther  along  the  path  ap- 
pointed than  either  had  any  intention  of  proceed- 
ing. Here,  to  Richard,  was  another  subject  upon 
which  there  could  be  no  arguing. 

"Eleanor  Bent  plays  very  well,  and  she  has  the 
finest  piano  in  Waltonville,  the  only  piano  really,  ex- 
cept Miss  Thomasina's.  It  is  a  young  and  strong 
piano"  —  Richard  smiled  pleasantly  —  "without  a 
tin  mandolin  inside  it  like  the  Scotts'.  I  wish  you 
could  hear  it,  mother." 

He  waited  for  a  second  for  an  answer,  but  no 
answer  came.  Into  his  face  rushed  a  flood  of  brilliant 
color.  Cora  Scott  had  never  made  her  case  plainer, 
never  betrayed  herself  more  helplessly.  He  turned 
and  went  out  of  the  room  and  upstairs  quickly. 

When  he  came  down,  Dr.  Lister  called  him  into 
the  study. 

"Richard,  you  have  caused  your  mother  and  me 
very  grave  anxiety." 

"I  know.  I'm  very  sorry  and  I  told  mother  so. 
I  did  n't  mean  to,  and  nobody  can  regret  it  more 
than  I  do."  He  could  hardly  wait  to  be  gone. 


EXPLANATIONS  .         187 

"I'm  going  away  for  a  few  days,  and  I  should 
like  you  to  stay  with  your  mother." 

"\\Tiy»  of  course!" 

"I  mean  that  I  should  like  you  to  stay  here  at 
the  house." 

"All  the  time!'*  gasped  Richard. 

"Yes." 

"Whatfor.^" 

"Suppose  we  say  that  it  is  to  show  your  mother 
that  you  are  really  sorry." 

"But  I  can  show  her  that  without  staying  in  the 
house!  When  are  you  going?" 

"At  four  o'clock." 

"Then  I  can  see  Miss  Thomasina  before  you  go." 

"It  is  after  two  now." 

"But  I  must,  father!" 

Dr.  Lister  had  never  so  loathed  managing  other 
people. 

"You'll  be  back  before  I  start?" 

"Yes." 

Richard  flew  across  the  campus  and  down  the 
street.  His  father  often  made  trips  away  in  the 
interest  of  the  college,  but  he  did  not  often  go  so 
suddenly.  Richard  remembered  that  his  mother 
had  planned  to  accompany  him  to  Pittsburgh.  Was 
he  going  to  Pittsburgh  now?  Why  did  n't  she  go 
too?  Was  she  staying  at  home  to  watch  him? 

Miss  Thomasina,  he  heard  from  Amelia,  had  gone 
away.  Now  he  could  see  Eleanor.  Then  he  groaned. 
He  could  not  rush  in  upon  her  and  off!  Turning 
homeward  he  found  his  father  completing  his  prepa- 
rations for  departure. 


188  ;basil  everman 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"To  Baltimore,  then  to  Pittsburgh." 

"I    thought   you    were    going   to    Pittsburgh, 

mother!" 

His  mother  looked  at  him  reproachfully.  Did  he 

not  know  that  she  never  left  him? 

"  No,  darling,"  said  Mary  Alcestis.  "My  place  is 

here." 


CHAPTER  XVI 

FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS 

For  three  days  Richard  roamed  like  a  caged  crea- 
ture from  room  to  room.  An  impulse  to  immediate 
rebelHon  soon  spent  itself.  His  intentions  had  not 
changed,  his  position  was  not  to  be  receded  from, 
but  the  necessity  for  a  new  step  was  not  yet  press- 
ing. He  would  wait,  he  could  afford  to  wait  for  three 
days,  reckless  and  unconsidered  and  foolish  as  his 
promise  had  been.  He  did  not  remember  that 
Eleanor  might  be  unhappy. 

In  the  meanwhile  he  would  make  his  plans.  He 
walked  up  and  down  or  sat  at  his  window  chin  on 
hand.  When  Mrs.  Scott  came  within  his  line  of 
vision  he  made  a  childish  grimace  in  her  direction. 
She  came  no  nearer  than  the  common  walk  which 
led  from  both  houses  to  the  college  gate,  being  en- 
tirely satisfied  with  her  recent  visit  to  Mrs.  Lister. 

Richard  thought  of  writing  to  Eleanor,  but 
promptly  abandoned  the  idea  of  substituting  a  cool 
and  unresponsive  sheet  of  paper  for  a  glowing  cheek. 
He  had  inherited  none  of  his  Uncle  Basil's  facility 
with  a  pen.  He  must  tell  her  everything,  except 
that  he  had  had  to  steal  away  and  that  he  was  re- 
ceived like  a  returning  prodigal,  and  he  must  watch 
her  as  he  talked. 

It  occurred  to  him  after  the  first  day  that  his 
father  might  have  a  really  good  reason  for  requiring 


190  BASIL  EVERMAN 

i 

him  to  stay  with  his  mother.  Could  she  be  suffering 
from  some  dangerous  and  treacherous  disease  and 
for  that  reason  need  constant  company?  The  possi- 
biUty  frightened  him  and  he  went  at  once  to  find 
her. 

Mary  Alcestis  sat  at  the  window  of  her  bedroom, 
her  httle  sewing-table  beside  her  and  a  sock  of 
Richard's  stretched  over  her  hand.  Thus  placed 
and  thus  occupied,  she  forgot  for  short  periods  her 
misery  and  with  it  his.  It  was  difficult  at  best  for 
her  to  put  herself  in  the  place  of  one  who  had 
experiences  alien  to  her  nature.  Her  large,  sweet 
face  now  beamed  upon  her  son.  Richard,  she  was 
sure,  would  soon  see,  if  he  had  not  seen  already,  the 
blessedness  of  doing  that  which  was  exactly  right. 

"No,  darling,  I  am  not  sick,"  said  she.  "There 
is  nothing  whatever  the  matter  with  me." 

Richard  read  his  mother's  mind.  She  need  not 
think  that  he  was  yielding,  that  he  would  ever  yield 
—  there  should  be  demonstration  of  that  immedi- 
ately upon  his  father's  return. 

He  took  from  his  desk-drawer  those  neat  note- 
books which  his  mother  admired  without  knowing 
their  contents  and  turned  from  page  to  page.  Here 
were  his  first  transpositions  and  here  his  first  exer- 
cises. How  often  he  had  worked  at  music  when 
Greek  and  mathematics  were  supposed  to  be  his 
occupation,  until  transposing  had  become  much 
easier  than  reading  Greek  and  until  musical  phrases 
stood  for  distinct  ideas.  Here  were  simple  composi- 
tions, hymns,  little  tunes,  and  more  elaborate  ex- 
ercises in  counterpoint,  worked  out  and  agonized 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  191 

over  by  him  and  Thomasina,  whose  knowledge  of 
harmony  had  been  acquired  because  of  his  ne- 
cessities. Here  were  sketches  for  greater  works  — ' 
his  eyes  glowed.  Concerto,  symphony,  opera  —  his 
ambition  was  boundless.  Weeks  had  passed  since 
he  had  looked  into  his  notebooks  and  in  the  mean- 
time he  had  changed.  His  long  conversation  with 
Faversham,  his  new  emotional  experience,  made 
all  that  he  had  done  thus  far  seem  puerile,  undevel- 
oped. He  had  now  so  much  better  plans !  He  stud- 
ied his  notes,  covered  sheets  of  music-paper  with 
sketches,  hummed  a  hundred  airs,  rewrote,  and 
longed  for  Eleanor's  piano.  Faversham  had  opened 
undreamed-of  vistas,  and  here  he  was  doing  nothing 
for  three  precious  days  which  could  never  be  his 
again ! 

Once  he  sat  down  at  the  piano.  He  lifted  his  long 
fingers  over  a  great  chord  and  let  his  hands  fall  — 
the  result  was  a  combination  of  tinkling  and  slightly 
discordant  sounds,  dying  away  with  metallic  echoes 
and  even  with  a  sharp  wooden  crack  of  the  old 
frame.  At  the  very  end,  he  heard  a  gentle  sigh  and 
knew  that  his  mother  sat  in  the  study  across  the 
hall.  He  longed  at  that  to  bring  both  hands  and 
arms  thumping  down  upon  the  yellow  keys.  It  was 
a  Richard  far  removed  from  the  one  who  had  once 
preached  to  the  fishes. 

Thomasina,  to  his  keen  disappointment,  did  not 
appear.  The  necessity  for  some  one  to  talk  to, 
the  discomfort  of  repression,  grew  less  tolerable. 
He  went  for  the  mail,  his  mother  waiting  for  him 
on  the  porch,  not  with  outspoken  intention  of  stay- 


192  BASIL  EVERMAN 

i 

ing  there  until  he  should  return,  but  with  every 
appearance  to  his  mind  of  a  jailer  watching  the 
short  exercise  of  a  prisoner.  He  stopped  at  Thoma- 
sina's  door,  but  found  that  she  was  still  absent.  He 
met  Cora  Scott  and  answered  her  shortly,  saying 
yes,  it  was  a  pleasant  day.  What  he  meant  was  that 
it  was  a  long  and  hateful  and  intolerable  day.  Here 
was  a  heart  aching  for  a  word,  here  a  mind  which 
would  have  welcomed,  cherished,  and  kept  invio- 
late all  confidences !  Richard  knew  it  and  hated  the 
heart  upon  Cora's  sleeve. 

That  evening,  the  second  of  Dr.  Lister's  absence, 
black  'Manda  sat  herself  down  on  the  kitchen  porch 
to  rest  before  she  went  on  her  way  to  the  cabins, 
and  there  she  lifted  up  her  voice  in  "I  was  a  wan- 
dering sheep."  Richard  heard  her  from  the  front 
porch  and  sprang  up  from  the  hammock  and  went 
round  the  house.  His  clear  and  steady  tenor  took 
the  melody  from  her,  lifted  it  and  went  on  with  it, 
the  deep  tones  of  'Manda  proceeding  undisturbed. 

They  sang  one  stanza,  then  another  and  another, 
'Manda's  "po'  lamb"  booming  out.  When  they  had 
finished,  Mrs.  Lister  looked  for  Richard  to  return. 
She  was  almost  smiling,  the  duet  recalled  so  many 
blessed  hours.  But  Richard  did  not  return.  He  led 
off  in  "Hallelu,"  then  "Swing  low,  sweet  chariot." 
He  sat  down  with  'Manda  and  an  old-time  concert 
began. 

Suddenly  the  singers  forsook  religious  themes. 
'Manda's  repertoire  was  not  altogether  that  of  the 
church ;  it  included  a  variety  of  songs  which  Richard 
had  up  to  this  time  never  heard,  mournful,  imcanny. 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  193 

without  intelligible  words  to  express  their  burden 
of  savagery,  songs  learned  she  knew  not  how  long 
ago,  unsung  she  knew  not  for  how  long.  Mrs.  Lister 
stopped  her  ears. 

But  that  did  not  stop  the  sound.  She  went  through 
the  house  into  the  kitchen  and  looked  out.  Richard 
sat  on  the  upper  step,  a  writing-pad  on  his  knee, 
the  light  from  the  door  falling  on  his  bent  head. 

"Now,  'Manda,  that  last  line  once  more.  How 
perfectly  extraordinary!"  Mrs.  Lister  went  back 
to  her  chair. 

Cora  Scott  heard  the  singing  clearly  as  she  sat 
at  her  window  and  cried,  and  told  her  mother, 
when  she  came  to  her  door,  having  heard  also  and 
being  curious  to  know  whether  Cora  heard,  that 
she  was  very  sleepy  and  had  gone  to  bed.  Her 
voice  sounded  sleepy. 

Eleanor  Bent,  walking  restlessly  on  a  pretended 
errand  to  Thomasina's,  heard  and  stood  still  in 
the  thick  shadow  of  the  maple  trees  and  listened. 
Richard  was  away,  surely  he  was  away !  But  here  he 
was  at  home,  singing!  And  his  last  word  had  been 
a  promise  to  come  again.  He  had  taken  her  in  his 
arms,  had  kissed  her,  and  had  not  come  back.  Was 
he  angry  or  offended?  Had  she  said  anything  to 
hurt  him? 

At  that  instant  all  her  frightened  questions  re- 
turned. It  was  in  just  such  a  black  shadow  that 
hideous,  sodden  Bates  from  the  hotel  had  taken 
her  mother  by  the  arm.  She  ceased  to  hear  Rich- 
ard's singing,  ceased  to  feel  the  soft  breeze  of 
the  summer  night,  ceased  to  hear  the  sound  of 


194  BASIL  EVERMAN 

voices  on  the  other  side  of  the  street  which  a  mo- 
ment before  had  warned  her  to  go  on  her  way. 
She  heard  that  scolding,  mascuHne  voice  out  of  the 
past,  she  saw  again  her  mother's  strange  outbreak 
of  anger.  Was  it  what  she  was  that  had  offended 
Richard?  And  what  was  she? 

Mrs.  Lister  went  a  second  time  through  the 
house  to  the  kitchen  door. 

"Richard,  you  must  n't  keep  'Manda  any  longer. 
She'll  be  all  tired  out  to-morrow." 

'Manda  rose  heavily  and  tremulously.  She  had 
seemed  to  herself  for  the  last  half -hour  to  be  a  very 
different  person  in  a  very  different  place.  Now  she 
was  once  again  only  an  old,  homely,  and  fat  darkey. 

"Yes'sum,  Miss  Mary  Als'tis,"  said  she. 

Richard  followed  his  mother  into  the  house. 

"The  old  girl's  got  a  lot  of  queer  tunes  in  her 
head.  I  've  written  some  of  them  down.  Something 
could  be  made  of  them." 

Mrs.  Lister's  heart  sank. 

In  the  morning  Richard  went  again  for  the  mail. 
This  afternoon  his  father  would  come  home,  and 
then  there  would  be  an  end  to  this  nonsense.  His 
evening's  course  was  planned.  He  would  go  straight 
to  Eleanor  and  would  tell  her  everything.  His 
fancy,  restrained  for  the  last  few  days  so  that  he 
might  not  make  himself  too  miserable,  now  leaped 
all  restraint.  He  recalled  Eleanor  in  her  seat  in  the 
classroom,  sought  her  out  in  her  pew  in  church, 
dwelt  upon  her  at  her  piano,  adored  her  on  the  little 
porch  in  the  evening  light.  He  basked  in  each  re- 
membered smile,  he  counted  each  clustering  cm*!. 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  195 

It  was  only  four  days  since  he  had  seen  her,  but  he 
paled  with  fear  lest  some  ill  might  have  befallen 
her,  or  that  some  change  might  have  lessened  her 
regard.  He  must  have  her  promise  to  marry  him 
before  he  could  go  on  with  his  work.  He  felt  sharply 
impatient  with  this  interruption  to  his  steady 
course.  Shut  into  the  house  a  year  ago  with  a  cold, 
he  had  read  the  accumulated  chapters  of  a  serial 
story  at  whose  hero's  failure  he  had  laughed  to 
Thomasina. 

"No  Christina  Light  could  drive  any  steady  man 
off  his  track  like  that!" 

Thomasina  had  smiled  and  had  said  nothing. 
He  remembered  the  story  now  with  irritation. 
But  it  had  no  meaning  for  him;  he  was  going  to 
have  his  Eleanor,  he  had  her  already. 

Coming  back  through  the  hot  sunshine  from  the 
post-office,  he  handed  his  mother  his  father's  letters 
and  sat  down  in  the  hammock  with  the  papers 
and  magazines.  He  glanced  at  the  headlines  of  the 
paper  and  threw  it  aside;  it  was  not  a  period 
when  the  news  was  exciting.  Then  he  stripped  off 
the  covers  of  the  August  magazines.  As  he  opened 
the  first,  he  started  visibly.  He  glanced  at  his 
mother  and  saw  that  she  was  occupied  and  his  eyes 
dropped  once  more  to  the  "Table  of  Contents" 
and  rested  there,  his  cheeks  reddening.  Here  was 
Eleanor's  story  "Professor  EUenborough's  Last 
Class,"  and  here  was  another  story,  "Bitter  Bread," 
by  Basil  Everman! 

Mrs.  Lister,  looking  up,  met  his  astonished  eyes 
and  took  instant  alarm. 


196  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"What  is  the  matter,  Richard?" 

"Why,  mother,  here  is  a  story  written  by  my 
Uncle  Basil  and  reprinted!  It  is  called  'Bitter 
Bread.'  It  is  very  long."  Richard  turned  page  after 
page. 

She  neither  moved  nor  spoke. 

"And  at  the  beginning  there  is  a  note,  telling 
about  it.  Listen!  'In  his  small  output,  Basil  Ever- 
man  may  be  said  to  have  equaled  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
in  originality  and  power.  An  essay  "Roses  of  Pses- 
tum,"  a  vivid  descriptive  poem  "Storm,"  and  a 
single  story  "Bitter  Bread,"  which  we  republish, 
were  originally  printed  in  this  magazine.  They 
prove  the  extraordinary  genius  of  this  young  man, 
long  since  dead.  Basil  Everman  was  born  in  Walton- 
ville,  Pennsylvania,  and  died  in  Baltimore  at  the 
age  of  twenty-five.  His  productions  surpass  in 
quality,  we  believe,  all  other  productions  of  their 
time. ' 

"Mother,  how  perfectly  splendid!  Aren't  you 
pleased.'^"  Richard  waited  for  no  answer.  "He 
wasn't  so  very  much  older  than  I.  Mother — " 
He  meant  to  ask  questions,  but  respect  for  his 
mother's  silence  was  bred  into  him.  His  head  bent 
lower.  "There  is  another  story  here  and  another 
note.  'We  print  in  this  issue  another  story  from 
Waltonville,  a  contribution  very  different  in  char- 
acter, but  also  exhibiting  the  promise  of  talent  of  a 
high  order,  "  Professor  EUenborough's  Last  Class, 
by  Eleanor  Bent." ' 

"Won't  Scotty  champ  his  bit.^"  demanded 
Richard  as  he  looked  up  boldly.  "I  wonder  what 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  197 

kind  of  a  story  Eleanor  would  write.  I  — "  Richard 
meant  to  say  that  this  was  not  the  first  knowledge 
he  had  had  of  her  success,  but  he  saw  that  his 
mother  looked  at  him  with  fright  and  anger. 
"Mother,  in  the  name  of  common  sense,  what  is 
the  matter  with  the  people  in  this  house  .'^" 

Mrs.  Lister  rose  unsteadily. 

"You  have  never  before  spoken  to  your  mother 
in  such  a  way,  Richard!" 

Mrs.  Lister  entered  the  door,  ascended  the  steps, 
and  lay  down  upon  her  couch.  Richard,  fright- 
ened and  repentant,  followed  at  once,  and  hung 
over  her,  begging  to  be  allowed  to  wait  upon  her. 

"Shall  I  darken  the  room,  mother.'^" 

"Yes,  Richard,  please." 

"Shall  I  bring  you  a  drink?" 

"No,  Richard,  thank  you." 

"Shall  I  take  myself  downstairs.'^" 

"Yes,  Richard,  please." 

Richard  ran  down  the  steps. 

"In  six  hours  father  will  be  here,  then  let  us  hope 
that  sanity  will  return  to  this  demented  house- 
hold." 

Richard  read  "Professor  EUenborough's  Last 
Class"  and  smiled;  then  he  read  "Bitter  Bread" 
and  was  filled  with  awe.  It  was  English  and  it  was 
prose,  but  it  was  like  the  old  Greek  stuff  that  he 
had  pegged  away  over  for  so  many  years.  It  made 
him  see  for  the  first  time  sense  and  beauty  in  the 
old  Greek  stuff.  Perhaps  he  had  been  up  to  this  time 
very  stupid.  He  felt,  with  all  his  good  opinion  of 
himself,  that  even  after  a  second  reading  of  "Bitter 


198  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Bread"  he  could  not  understand  it  wholly.  Hum- 
bled, he  took  from  the  long  line  of  texts  on  his 
father's  shelf  a  familiar  and  hated  volume  and 
looked  into  it.  He  had  never  expected  to  look  into 
it  again,  but  now  as  he  read  ideas  for  music  came 
into  his  mind. 

While  he  read,  he  held  "  Willard's  Magazine"  on 
his  knee.  It  was  overwhelming,  ennobling,  to  be 
connected  with  so  great  a  man.  He  longed  to  read 
the  story  to  his  mother,  to  make  her  see  in  it  what 
he  saw,  to  ask  a  hundred  questions  about  Basil. 
He  reviewed  all  the  facts  that  he  knew;  the  locked 
room  which  had  been  Basil's;  the  conviction,  early 
impressed  upon  him,  that  it  was  not  to  be  entered, 
was  not,  indeed,  a  place  where  one  would  wish  to  be. 

"I  hope,  when  I  am  dead,  no  one  will  treat  my 
room  that  way,"  said  Richard.  To  die  with  work 
undone,  with  life  waiting!  How  cruel!  He  wondered 
whether  Basil  had  known  that  he  must  die.  Shiver- 
ing, he  went  out  of  the  cool  study  into  the  sun- 
shine. 

Dr.  Lister  returned,  as  was  expected,  at  four 
o'clock.  He  looked  white  and  tired.  When  Richard 
met  him  with  the  word  that  Mrs.  Lister  was  not 
well,  he  went  at  once  to  her  room.  There,  weeping, 
she  told  him  about  "Professor  EUenborough's  Last 
Class."  What  he  had  to  tell  made  her  feel  no  better. 
She  said  that  she  did  not  wish  any  supper;  she 
would  stay  where  she  was,  and  when  he  had  told 
Richard  he  should  come  back. 

"Tell  him  at  once,"  said  Mary  Alcestis  as  she 
hid  her  face  in  the  pillow. 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  199 

Together  Richard  and  his  father  had  a  quiet 
supper.  The  table  shone  with  its  array  of  old  sil- 
ver, and  upon  the  meal  'Manda  had  done  her  best. 
Both  men  ate  heartily.  Richard  gave  his  father 
an  account  of  the  few  unimportant  incidents  of  his 
absence,  but  Dr.  Lister  gave  in  return  no  accoimt 
of  his  journey. 

"Mother  was  sitting  on  the  porch  when  suddenly 
she  said  she  did  n't  feel  well  and  went  upstairs.  She 
would  n't  let  me  do  anything  for  her.  I  think  it  was 
Uncle  Basil's  story  which  made  her  feel  badly.  I 
hope  nobody  will  ever  bury  me  like  that!  I  don't 
even  know  what  he  looked  like!" 

When  supper  was  over  the  two  went  into  the 
study  and  there  Dr.  Lister  closed  the  door.  He  took 
the  chair  behind  his  desk,  and  then,  as  though  dis- 
satisfied with  that  magisterial  position,  crossed  the 
room  and  sat  down  by  one  of  the  low  windows. 
Richard  waited,  standing  by  the  desk,  impatient 
to  be  gone,  and  prepared  for  some  unwelcome  com- 
mand. Had  his  father  visited  his  acquaintances  in 
Baltimore  and  was  he  to  be  ordered  to  Johns  Hop- 
kins.^ He  rejected  this  as  imtenable.  His  father 
would  not  treat  him  like  a  baby.  Was  it  an  ultima- 
tum, favorable  or  unfavorable,  about  music?  He 
trembled. 

Several  seconds  passed  before  Dr.  Lister  began 
to  speak,  and  he  had  in  that  time  exchanged  twice 
the  position  of  his  knees.  So  long  was  the  silence 
that  Richard  gave  expression  to  his  impatience. 

"Father,  the  queerest  air  of  mystery  pervades 
this  house.  Mother  is  not  ill;  she  is  offended  with 


SaO  BASIL  EVERMAN 


• 


me.  She  will  scarcely  speak  to  me.  I  made  an  en- 
tirely innocent  remark,  and  off  she  went.  If  I  have 
done  anything  to  bring  this  about,  I  am  sorry  and 
I'll  try  to  correct  it.  If  my  speaking  about  Uncle 
Basil  hurt  her  feelings,  I'll  never  do  that  again. 
But  I  can't  be  treated  like  a  baby." 

Dr.  Lister  blinked. 

"Sit  down,  Richard.  It  is  nothing  that  you  have 
done  that  troubles  your  mother.  It  is  a  condition 
which  has  risen  without  your  will  entirely." 

"I  have  an  engagement  this  evening,  father!" 

"I  '11  not  keep  you  long."  Dr.  Lister  paused 
again,  this  time  to  steady  his  voice.  He  had  had 
no  knowledge  of  disappointed  love  from  his  own 
experience,  Mary  Alcestis  having  fallen  like  a  ripe 
peach  into  his  hand,  but  he  could  imagine  the  dis- 
comforts of  the  situation. 

Richard  found  a  seat  in  a  corner  of  the  sofa.  His 
heart  beat  a  little  more  rapidly  and  he  was  puzzled 
by  his  father's  gravity.  He  seemed  to  see  the  edge 
of  a  cloud,  as  yet  no  larger  than  a  man's  hand,  but 
none  the  less  ominous. 

"I  must  tell  you  about  your  Uncle  Basil, 
Richard." 

"Well,"  said  Richard,  "go  ahead.  He's  a  very 
mysterious  person  to  me  so  far." 

"Your  grandfather  had  two  children,  your 
mother  and  Basil.  Upon  Basil  he  founded  manj 
hopes  and  began  early  in  his  youth  a  most  careful 
system  of  training  so  that  he  should  waste  no  time, 
but  should  become  what  Dr.  Everman  himself  was, 
a  careful  and  thorough  student  of  Greek. 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  201 

"A  certain  amount  of  instruction  Basil  listened 
to  willingly,  but  his  nature  was  not  one  which  sub- 
mitted itself  to  regular,  long-continued  training  of 
any  sort.  He  was  a  very  handsome,  talented  lad, 
but  a  cruel  disappointment  to  his  father.  He  would 
not  graduate  from  the  college,  refusing  peremptorily 
to  spend  his  time  upon  subjects  in  which  he  had 
no  interest.  He  learned  to  read  Greek  fluently;  in- 
deed, he  had  a  passionate  admiration  for  the  liter- 
ary beauties  of  the  language,  but  to  his  father's 
great  chagrin  he  would  go  no  deeper." 

"Then  he  was  not  like  Browning's  grammarian 
who  never  got  anything  out  of  life  but  a  funeral  on 
a  high  mountain,"  said  Richard  gayly.  Uncle  Basil 
had  nothing  to  do  with  him,  the  little  cloud  had 
disappeared. 

"Finally,  after  some  difficulty  with  his  father,  he 
left  home." 

"He  was  grown  up,  I  suppose,"  said  Richard. 
"There  is  n't  much  to  do  in  Walton ville." 

"He  left  home,  as  I  have  said,  and  after  a  year 
he  died  of  malignant  diphtheria  in  a  lodging-house 
in  Baltimore.  His  father's  death  followed  close  upon 
his.  Thus  your  mother  was  in  a  short  time  bereft 
of  father,  only  brother,  and  also  of  her  home,  since 
this  house  is  the  property  of  the  college.  I  was 
elected  to  your  grandfather's  place,  as  it  happened, 
and  I  brought  her  back." 

Richard  looked  up  at  the  picture  of  his  grand- 
father. He  was  tempted  to  say,  "Handsome  old 
boy." 

"Slowly  your  mother  returned  to  a  normal  con- 


202  BJiSIL  EVERMAN 

dition  of  mind,  but  she  has  never  recovered  from 
the  death  of  your  uncle.  Her  father  and  mother 
were  old,  she  and  Basil  were  born  late  in  their  lives, 
and  to  him  she  looked  for  companionship.  His  death 
away  from  home,  waited  upon  by  strangers,  almost 
unhinged  her  mind. 

"After  you  were  born  she  sat  less  in  Basil's  room 
in  the  third  story;  she  began  to  take  an  interest  in 
life;  she  became  wrapped  up  in  you,  in  caring  for 
you,  in  making  plans  for  your  future.  You  were  to 
do  what  Basil  was  to  have  done,  to  — " 

"But  it's  not  safe  to  plan  what  children  are  to 
do!"  cried  Richard.  "You  don't  know  what  their 
plans  may  be.  I'm  sorry  for  mother,  but  I  should 
think  she  would  have  known  that!" 

"That  is  true  to  a  certain  point.  Your  mother 
has  feared  that  you  would  show  some  of  those 
traits  which  distressed  her  in  Basil,  that  intense 
absorption  in  matters  which  are  to  her  the  least 
important  in  life,  to  the  utter  exclusion  of  those 
which  seem  to  her  to  be  more  practical  and  valu- 
able. She  does  not  imderstand  persons  of  a  different 
temperament,  especially  the  temperament  to  which 
regular  meals "  —  here  Dr.  Lister  smiled  a  little  at 
Richard  —  "and  neat  clothes  and  the  good  opinion 
of  the  public  are  adiaphora." 

"I  have  always  done  what  she  wanted  me  to  do 
like  a  lamb,"  declared  Richard  in  a  hard  tone.  He 
moved  now  toward  the  edge  of  his  chair. 

"You  have  always  been  an  obedient  son." 

"What  does  mother  consider  matters  of  no  im- 
portance.^" 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  203 

"In  Basil's  case  it  was  art,  literature,  and  music 
which  she  thought  he  set  above  everything  else." 

"Was  my  Uncle  Basil  musical?" 

"To  a  certain  extent."  Dr.  Lister  wondered  un- 
easily how  he  would  ever  approach  the  point  of  his 
discourse.  "To  go  on,  Richard  — " 

"Why  did  mother  ever  let  me  take  lessons?" 

"She  thought  you  would  in  that  way  exhaust  in 
your  childhood  any  enthusiasm  you  might  have  and 
you  would  then  give  your  mind  to  other  things." 

"Glory!"  said  Richard.  Then,  "I  am  very  sorry 
for  my  Uncle  Basil." 

"He  deserved  some  sympathy.  We  all  do  in  this 
contrary  world.  I  — " 

"I  canijot  see  why  Greek  should  seem  any  more 
practical  than  music  to  my  mother." 

"Greek  is  the  language  of  the  New  Testament." 

"I  cannot  see  what  this  has  to  do  with  me,  any- 
how, father.  I  have  been  in  this  house  or  on  the 
porch  for  three  days." 

Dr.  Lister  began  to  speak  with  nervous  haste. 

"The  history  of  your  Uncle  Basil  has  recently 
been  opened  by  this  man  Utterly,  who  came  here  to 
find  out  what  he  could  about  him.  Your  mother 
was  willing  to  give  him  only  the  most  meager  in- 
formation. In  this  she  was  justified,  for  the  yoimg 
man  seemed  bound  to  prove  that  no  one  could  have 
written  as  Basil  wrote  without  having  had  the 
terrible  experiences  about  which  he  wrote. 

"When  I  urged  her  to  tell  him  what  she  knew, 
she  told  me  that  for  a  year  before  his  death  Basil 
had  been  estranged;  that  his  father  had  died  from 


204  5ASIL  EVERMAN 

the  shock  of  his  death;  that  Walton ville  had  never 
suspected  the  alienation;  and  that  she  had  always 
had  an  intense  dread  of  its  being  suspected. 

"After  that  I  could  only  send  Mr.  Utterly  on  his 
way  with  the  surface  facts  of  Basil's  life,  hoping 
that  the  matter  would  end  there. 

"But  now  a  new  element  has  entered  mto  the 
situation.  Your  mother  had  not  even  then  confided 
in  me  the  whole  of  your  uncle's  story.  Her  affec- 
tion for  him  and  her  pride  in  the  good  name  of  the 
family  had  kept  her  lips  closed.  A  day  or  two  ago 
she  told  me  more.  This  has  a  relation  to  you,  but 
not,  I  trust,  Richard,  a  very  vital  relation.  I  wish 
she  had  told  me  long  ago.  I  have  hoped  it  would 
not  be  necessary  to  tell  you  —  perhaps  it  isn't 
really  necessary  now." 

Richard's  face  expressed  a  mild  curiosity.  His 
father  seemed  to  be  making  a  great  deal  of  noth- 
ing. 

"When  you  were  in  Baltimore,  Mrs.  Scott  came 
to  see  your  mother  and  told  her,  with  all  her  imper- 
tinence, that  you  had  been  spending  a  good  deal 
of  time  with  Eleanor  Bent.  Your  mother  said  in 
response  that  Eleanor  was  a  bright,  pretty  girl  and 
that  it  was  your  affair." 

Richard  felt  that  now  his  father  was  a  very  direct 
and  satisfactory  raconteur. 

"That  night,  while  we  waited  for  you  to  come 
home,  your  mother  told  me  the  whole  story  of  your 
uncle.  He  was  attached,  it  seems,  to  Margie  Ginter, 
the  daughter  of  the  tavern-keeper,  and  it  was  she 
whom  he  followed  away.  Your  mother  had  come 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  205 

upon  them  in  the  twiHght,  and  had  overheard  a 
conversation  between  them." 

"Mother  is  suspicious,"  said  Richard. 

"From  their  conversation  she  had  every  reason 
to  suspect  a  close  intimacy.  At  any  rate,  they  went 
away  and  Basil  went  away.  Sometime  after  his 
death,  this  Margie  returned  with  a  little  girl." 

Richard's  eyes  darkened.  The  cloud  had  increased 
in  size.  His  father  regretted  the  orderly  way  in 
which  he  had  presented  the  facts,  one  after  the 
other.  He  wished  that  he  had  said  abruptly, 
"Eleanor  Bent  is  your  first  cousin,  and  if  there  is 
anything  between  you  it  must  end." 

"Here  she  stayed,  Richard." 

Richard  seemed  still  more  puzzled  than  alarmed. 

"You  mean  Mrs.  Bent.^^  But  she  is  a  widow,  her 
name  is  Bent.  What  an  atrocious  suspicion!" 

Dr.  Lister  raised  his  hand. 

"Quietly,  Richard!  Yoiu*  mother  will  hear!" 

Richard's  blazing  eyes  said  that  that  made  little 
diflFerence. 

"I  know  that  she  calls  herseK  Mrs.  Bent  and  her 
name  may  be  Mrs.  Bent.  The  point  is  that  her 
daughter  is  like  Basil."  He  quoted  unconsciously 
from  Mrs.  Lister's  sentences.  "She  walks  like  him, 
her  coloring  is  like  his,  her  eyes  are  his,  and  she  has 
begun  to  show  talent  like  his." 

"I  should  need  better  proof  than  that!"  declared 
Richard. 

"I  needed  more  proof  also,  and  so  I  went  to  the 
little  town  in  Ohio  where  the  Ginters  were  said  to 
have  gone.  That  is  where  I  have  been.  The  father 


206  BASIL  EVERMAN 

and  daughter  and  a  tall  young  man  who  was 
superior  to  them  are  dimly  remembered.  They 
did  n't  stay  long.  Marysville,  it  seemed,  could  not 
endure  Ginter.  I  talked  to  the  Squire." 

"My  Uncle  Basil  may  have  married  her  and 
afterwards  she  may  have  married  a  second  time!" 

"It  is  possible,"  agreed  Dr.  Lister.  "I  hope  that 
is  the  way  of  it." 

"Well,  then,  what  is  all  this  fuss  about .f^"  de- 
manded Richard  rudely.  "Nothing  is  Eleanor's 
fault!  Nothing  can  make  any  difference  in  my 
feeling  for  her!  When  I  am  able  1  mean  to  marry 
her." 

"Richard!" 

"Well.?" 

Dr.  Lister  described  briefly  the  consequences  of 
such  an  alliance.  His  remarks  were  made  to  fill 
time,  to  give  Richard  an  opportunity  to  get  hold 
of  himself. 

Richard  clasped  and  unclasped  his  hands,  fitting 
his  fingers  neatly  together.  He  did  not  lift  his  eyes, 
he  wished  only  to  get  away,  but  he  did  not  feel 
certain  of  his  power  of  locomotion. 

"Mother  had  no  right  to  let  this  go  on!" 

"She  did  n't  dream  of  such  a  thing.  Be  fair!" 

"Not  dream  of  it!  Did  she  suppose  I  could  asso- 
ciate day  after  day  with  a  girl  like  Eleanor  and  not 
love  her  .f^" 

"She  didn't  know  you  associated  with  her.  I 
hope  you  have  come  to  no  sort  of  understanding.^* 

Richard  answered  only  with  a  setting  of  his  jaw. 
What  he  had  done  was  his  business.  They  should 


FURTHER  EXPLANATIONS  207 

pry  no  farther;  his  heart  was  bleeding,  but  they 
should  not  count  the  drops.  As  soon  as  he  felt  cer- 
tain of  his  knees  he  would  fly. 

Dr.  Lister  gave  his  body  a  little  comfort  against 
the  back  of  his  chair. 

"I  have  no  objection  to  your  following  music  as 
a  career,  Richard,  and  I  am  sure  we  can  win  your 
mother  over  also.  We  want  to  do  what  is  best  for 
you  —  that  is  our  chief  desire  in  life.  We  will  give 
you  every  possible  opportunity  here  and  abroad. 
What  did  Mr.  Faversham  say  about  your  playing  .^^ " 

Richard  had  now  got  to  his  feet.  It  seemed  to 
him  that  he  kept  on  and  on  rising.  Insult  had  been 
added  to  injury. 

"I  have  nothing  to  tell,"  said  he  with  dignity, 
and  so  got  himself  away. 


CHAPTEE  XVII 

MRS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED 

Surely  there  could  have  been  no  more  remarkable 
coincidence  than  this  proximity  in  "Willard's 
Magazine"  of  the  work  of  Basil  Everman  and  of 
Eleanor  Bent.  It  seemed  to  Mrs.  Lister  that  their 
connection  must  be  blazoned  thereby  to  the  world, 
that  the  two  compositions  must  bear  on  their  faces 
evidence  which  the  least  discerning  could  interpret. 
Things  done  in  secret  could  not  be  hidden;  all  her 
efforts  of  years  to  save  the  name  of  Basil  from 
disgrace  were  of  no  avail  before  the  power  of  God's 
law.  She  had  given  one  painful,  fascinated  reading 
to  the  "Scarlet  Letter";  to  her,  now,  Basil  and 
his  companion  were  approaching  the  scaffold  in 
the  market-place  for  their  final  acknowledgment 
of  common  guilt. 

After  a  few  days  she  rose,  white  and  trembling, 
from  her  bed  and  went  once  more  into  a  suspicious 
world.  She  had  faced  it  for  twenty  years,  she  would 
face  it  again. 

But  in  spite  of  her  terror,  the  coincidence  appar- 
ently suggested  nothing  to  Waltonville,  brought 
back  no  damning  recollection  to  any  human  being. 
The  memory  of  mankind  is  short;  that  which  she 
had  desired  was  accomplished;  Basil's  swinging 
step,  his  bright  eyes,  his  dark,  beautiful  hair  were 
long  ago  forgotten;  the  step  so  like  his,  the  eyes  lit 


MRS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED         209 

by  the  same  fire,  the  mass  of  dark  cm'Is  recalled  his 
image  as  little  as  did  this  youthful  writing  connect 
itself  with  his  work.  As  a  matter  of  fact,  Eleanor's 
account  of  a  semi-pathetic,  semi-humorous  college 
incident  was  not  in  the  least  like  Basil's  work,  but 
to  Mary  AJcestis  writing  was  writing. 

Waltonville's  response  to  Basil's  story  was  varied. 
Mrs.  Scott  did  not  think  it  in  any  way  remarkable; 
it  reminded  her,  she  said,  of  the  productions  of 
Edgar  Allan  Poe,  and  was  therefore  a  little  old- 
fashioned. 

"He  gave  us  long  ago  our  fill  of  horrors,"  said 
she  lightly.  "And  I  don't  think  this  is  even  as  hor- 
rible as  *The  Black  Cat'  and  it  certainly  does  n't 
compare  with  *The  Murders  in  the  Rue  Morgue."* 

With  Utterly's  opinions  as  a  stepping-stone  she 
had  leaped  far  above  him,  as  one  might  leap  from 
a  supporting  hand  into  a  high  saddle.  She  talked 
until  her  husband  blushed,  until  his  soul  writhed. 
As  for  Basil  Everman's  story,  she  thought  Utterly 
had  been  absurd  to  talk  about  a  thousand  dollars. 

"I  warrant  that  Mrs.  Lister  has  searched  through 
every  old  trunk  in  the  attic,"  said  she. 

Dr.  Scott  stirred  with  one  of  his  uneasy  little 
motions,  but  made  no  other  answer.  He  was  hav- 
ing a  restless,  unhappy  summer,  the  worst  he  had 
passed  since  his  marriage.  There  was  literally  noth- 
ing in  life  which  was  worth  while.  He  longed  to  go 
away,  he  longed  for  the  companionship  of  those 
with  kindred  tastes  and  gentle  ways,  he  longed  for 
a  sight  of  the  foreign  lands  of  which  he  dreamed. 
He  stood  sometimes  and  looked  about  his  house 


210  BASIL  EVERMAN 

with  its  frivolous  and  worthless  gauds;  he  thought 
of  the  bill  for  Mrs.  Scott's  outing,  postponed  a  little 
this  year  beyond  its  usual  date,  and  then  of  how 
simply  one  could  live  in  Italy  for  a  springtime. 

Italy!  —  He  took  a  book  from  his  shelf  and 
opened  it. 

"A  city  of  marble,  did  I  say.^^  nay,  rather  a  golden 
city,  paved  with  emerald.  For  truly,  every  pinnacle 
and  turret  glanced  or  glowed,  overlaid  with  gold  or 
bossed  with  jasper.  Beneath  the  unsullied  sea  drew 
in,  deep  breathing,  to  and  fro,  its  eddies  of  green 
wave.  ...  It  lay  along  the  face  of  the  waters,  no 
larger,  as  its  captains  saw  it  from  their  masts  at 
evening,  than  a  bar  of  the  sunset  that  could  not 
pass  away;  but  for  its  power,  it  must  have  seemed 
to  them  that  they  were  sailing  in  the  expanse  of 
heaven,  and  this  a  great  planet  whose  orient  edge 
widened  through  the  ether.  A  world  from  which  all 
ignoble  care  and  petty  thoughts  were  banished,  with 
all  the  common  and  poor  elements  of  life.  No  foul- 
ness nor  tumult  in  those  tremulous  streets,  that 
filled,  or  fell,  beneath  the  moon;  but  rippled  music 
of  majestic  change,  or  thrilling  silence.  No  weak 
walls  could  rise  above  them;  no  low-roofed  cottage, 
or  straw-built  shed.  Only  the  strength  as  of  rock, 
and  the  finished  setting  of  stones  most  precious.  And 
round  them,  far  as  the  eye  could  reach,  still  the  soft 
moving  of  stainless  waters,  proudly  pure;  as  not 
the  flower,  so  neither  the  thorn  nor  the  thistle, 
could  grow  in  the  glancing  field.  Ethereal  strength 
of  Alps,  dreamlike,  vanishing  in  high  procession  be- 
yond the  Torcellan  shore;  blue  islands  of  Paduan 


MRS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED  211 

hills,  poised  in  the  golden  west.  Above  free  winds 
and  fiery  clouds  ranging  at  their  will;  —  brightness 
out  of  the  north,  and  balm  from  the  south,  and  the 
stars  of  evening  and  morning  clear  in  the  limitless 
light  of  arched  heaven  and  circling  sea." 

Dr.  Scott  sighed  and  took  down  another  book, 
then  for  hours  he  was  dull  to  the  passing  of  time. 
Sometimes  he  was  able  to  lose  himself  in  dreams. 
But  when  he  woke  his  house  was  all  the  more 
intolerable  and  even  his  study  offered  no  balm. 
Late  July  brought  Walter  for  a  visit  and  Walter 
seemed  more  than  ever  worldly,  smart,  progres- 
sive, and  intolerable.  Cora  sat  in  her  room  silent 
and  white-faced.  Sometimes  she  read  for  a  long 
time  from  one  of  her  padded  poets.  Mrs.  Scott 
longed  for  Atlantic  City  and  complained  about  the 
Listers. 

To  Dr.  Scott  the  story  of  Basil  Everman  exhib- 
ited all  the  cruel  sadness  of  hmnan  fate.  His  imagi- 
nation was  fertile  and  he  reconstructed  Basil,  an 
alien  spirit  in  the  Everman  house.  His  speech  was 
not  the  speech  of  Puritanic  theology,  his  ways  could 
not  have  been  the  ways  of  Mary  Alcestis.  He  was 
so  soon  a  ghost,  wandering  forlorn,  his  work  only 
begun  when  life  was  ended!  Dr.  Scott  meant  to 
talk  to  Thomasina  Davis  about  him  —  she  surely 
would  remember  him. 

He  saw  no  reason  why  "Bitter  Bread"  should 
not  make  a  little  book.  Would  the  Listers  think  of 
him  as  the  editor  for  such  a  volume?  So  happy  an 
event  was  hardly,  in  this  disappointing  world,  prob- 
able; nevertheless,  though  he  knew  himseK  to  be 


212  BASIL  EVERMAN 

reckoning  without  any  host  whatever,  he  began  to 
put  together  editorial  words  and  phrases.  Then,  re- 
membering Utterly,  who  had  a  certain  right  as  a 
discoverer,  he  ceased  dreaming. 

Mrs.  Scott  thought  Eleanor's  story  poor  and 
called  attention  to  the  fact  that  she  had  taken 
Dr.  Green's  ofBce  as  a  model  for  untidiness,  at 
which  he  laughed  immoderately.  He  said  that 
Eleanor  might  use  himself  or  his  office  as  a  model 
at  any  time  or  to  any  extent  she  wished. 

**  Undoubtedly  she  has  some  kind  of  a  pull,"  was 
Mrs.  Scott's  next  comment. 

*'Pull.^"  repeated  Dr.  Scott  nervously. 

"Yes,  influence  over  the  editor,"  explained  Mrs. 
Scott,  "pull"  in  this  sense  being  a  new  usage 
adopted  from  Walter.  "Perhaps  a  financial  influ- 
ence. They  seem  to  have  money." 

Thomasina  Davis,  when  she  opened  her  copy  of 
"Willard's  Magazine,"  grew  pale;  then  she  put  it 
aside  and  went  to  walk  up  and  down  her  garden. 
It  was  a  long  time  before  serenity  returned  to  her 
countenance. 

Later  in  the  day  she  went  to  the  Bents'  to  con- 
gratulate Eleanor.  It  was  probable,  she  thought, 
that  no  one  else  in  Walton ville  but  Dr.  Scott  would 
say  anything  to  her.  Eleanor  looked  ill  and  troubled, 
not  as  one  would  expect  a  rising  author  to  look,  and 
her  mother  looked  even  more  distressed.  They  sat 
on  the  porch  with  Mrs.  Bent  watching  her  daughter 
anxiously,  from  the  background,  the  dark  circles 
under  her  eyes  telling  of  sleepless  nights. 

"You  ought  to  take  Eleanor  away  for  a  vaca- 


MRS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED         213 

tion,"  advised  Thomasina.  "There  is  no  place  su- 
perior to  Waltonville,  but  you  have  to  go  away 
sometimes  to  reahze  it.  Perhaps  she  would  Hke  to 
go  somewhere  with  me." 

To  Thomasina's  astonishment  Eleanor  burst  into 
tears,  and  rising,  overwhelmed  with  mortification, 
went  indoors. 

"She  ain't  very  well,"  explained  Mrs.  Bent,  who 
was  overwhelmed  also.  "Please  do  excuse  her.  Miss 
Davis.  She  has  studied  hard  and  she  has  practiced 
too  much  since  she  got  her  piano.  That  is,  she  did, 
but  she  don't  now." 

"Perhaps  she  ought  to  see  Dr.  Green." 

"Perhaps."  But  Mrs.  Bent's  forehead  did  not 
smooth  itself  out  at  the  suggestion.  Her  anxieties 
tightened  about  her  daily  like  a  coil  of  wire  long 
ago  flung  out  and  now  being  wound  closer  and 
closer. 

Thomasina  said  nothing  to  Mrs.  Lister  about 
Basil's  story.  They  had  never  talked  about  him, 
for  though  they  had  been  intimate  companions, 
Mary  Alcestis  had  shut  her  out  with  every  one  else 
from  her  grief.  She  believed  that  Thomasina  had 
thought  even  when  they  were  children  that  she  did 
not  love  him  enough,  was  not  always  amiable  with 
him.  Not  love  Basil !  It  was  because  she  had  loved 
him  so  dearly,  so  desperately,  that  she  had  tried  to 
watch  over  him,  to  lead  him,  to  admonish  him.  A 
woman  who  had  never  been  really  in  love,  who  had 
never  married,  who  had  never  had  children,  who 
had  always  maintained  even  toward  Dr.  Lister  an 
air  of  mental  equaUty,  could  not  be  expected  to 


214  BASIL  EVERMAN 

know  the  height  and  depth  of  love  which  Mary 
Aleestis  knew.  Thomasina,  for  all  her  bright  mind 
and  all  her  knowledge  of  many  things,  had  had 
little  experience  of  life's  realities. 

From  others  the  Listers  had  comments  in  plenty. 
"To  the  relatives  of  Basil  Everman,  Walton ville, 
Pennsylvania,"  had  come  to  be  a  familiar  address 
to  the  postmaster.  Editors  wrote  asking  whether 
there  had  not  been  preserved  other  compositions 
of  Basil  Everman.  They  would  welcome  even  frag- 
mentary notes.  Could  not  anything  be  found  by 
searching?  Dr.  Lister  went  to  the  attic  and  opened 
the  little  trunk  and  took  the  Euripides  and  the 
^schylus  down  to  his  study.  He  laid  his  hand  for 
an  instant  on  the  upper  drawer  of  the  old  bureau 
where  Basil's  clothes  were  packed,  but  did  not  open 
it.  These  clothes  should  long,  long  ago  have  been 
given  away  or  burned. 

A  few  old  friends  wrote  to  Dr.  Scott  for  informa- 
tion about  his  distinguished  fellow  citizen.  The 
story  was  to  be  followed  in  "  Willard's"  by  "Roses 
of  Paestum"  and  "Storm."  It  promised  to  be  fash- 
ionable to  reprint  old  material.  Dr.  Lister  heard 
nothing  from  Mr.  Utterly,  but  imagined  him  swell- 
ing with  pride  and  heard  his  sharp,  high  voice  going 
on  interminably  about  the  rights  of  the  public  in 
all  the  details  of  an  author's  life. 

Richard  sat  about  quietly,  holding  a  book  in  his 
hand,  but  not  reading.  His  first  experience  with 
pain  appalled  him.  So  this  was  the  world,  was  it? 
this  was  life.^  Was  this  dull  shade  the  real  color  of 
the  sky,  this  heavy  vapor  the  atmosphere.^  He  could 


MRS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED  215 

not  reconcile  so  malevolent  a  trick  of  fate  with  any 
conception  of  benevolence.  Presently  he  began  to 
resent  his  misery.  He  had  done  nothing  to  deserve 
this  pain. 

To  his  side,  as  he  sat  in  Dr.  Lister's  study  or  on 
the  porch,  his  mother  made  frequent  journeys. 

"Dinner-time,  Richard,"  said  Mary  Alcestis 
gently.  "Fried  chicken,  Richard,"  she  would  add 
hopefully.  Or,  "'Manda  has  just  finished  baking, 
Richard.  Would  you  like  a  little  cake?  It  would 
please  'Manda,  Richard."  Or  —  now  Mrs.  Lister's 
heart  throbbed  with  hope  —  "Would  you  like  to 
have  the  piano  tuned,  Richard.'^" 

To  all  these  suggestions  he  returned  a  polite, 
"No,  I  thank  you,  niother."  No  tuning  or  feeding 
could  help  either  the  piano  or  Richard  now. 

Once  he  turned  upon  his  mother  with  a  question. 

"Mother,  do  you  mean  to  say  that  during  all 
these  years,  you  and  Mrs.  Bent  have  never  ex- 
changed a  word  about  —  this  matter  .f^" 

"She  came  up  to  me  once  on  the  street  with  her 
little  girl,"  confessed  Mrs.  Lister  tremulously.  "But 
of  course  I  could  n't  talk  to  her  there  —  or  any- 
where!" 

"What  did  she  say.?" 

"She  said  she  wanted  to  talk  to  me  about  Basil." 

Finally  Mrs.  Lister  yielded  her  citadel. 

"Richard,  your  father  and  I  have  been  talking 
about  music.  We  think  that  when  you  get  your 
clavier  with  your  Commencement  money,  we  had 
better  get  a  piano  also.  Father  thinks  I  should  go 
with  you  to  Baltimore  and  that  it  would  be  well  to 


216  BASIL  EVERMAN 

ask  Thomasina  to  go  too.  You  could  have  it  to 
practice  on  now,  and  then  it  would  be  here  when 
you  came  from  —  from  New  York,  Richard." 

Richard  made  no  answer. 

"Would  you  like  that,  dear?" 

Richard  laid  his  book  on  the  table  before  him. 
He  remembered  the  things  which  had  been  said 
about  music,  about  art,  about  him!  He  laid  his 
head  down  on  his  arms. 

"A  grand  piano,  Richard!"  said  Mrs.  Lister, 
appealingly.  "Papa  thinks  — " 

"I  would  like  to  be  let  alone!"  said  Richard. 
"That  is  all  I  ask." 

But  Mrs.  Lister  had  not  yet  made  the  hardest 
of  her  sacrificial  suggestions.  She  was  grieved  by 
Richard's  response,  but  she  had  determined  to  bear 
anything. 

"I  am  thinking  of  that  young  girl,"  said  she  tim- 
idly. 

"What  young  girl?"  asked  Richard  with  a  warn- 
ing savageness. 

"Of  Miss  Bent.  I  don't  like  you  to  seem  rude  to 
her.  I  don't  suppose  she  knows  anything  about  her 
history.  I  can't  believe  she  does.  Perhaps  you  might 
make  another  call  on  her — with  Thomasina.  I  am 
sure  she  would  go  with  you  if  you  would  ask  her. 
There  would  not  be  anything  strange  in  it.  Then 
you  would  go  away  and  it  would  be  —  over.  You 
will  have  new  scenes." 

In  answer  Richard  simply  looked  at  his  mother. 
He  believed  that  her  mind  was  affected  by  long 
brooding  over  his  Uncle  Basil;  thus  only  could  her 


MKS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED         217 

behavior  and  her  conversation  be  explained.  To 
embrace  Eleanor  Bent,  to  stay  away  from  her  for 
days,  and  then  to  call  upon  her  with  Thomasina 
Davis !  It  was,  indeed,  a  fantastic  scheme. 

Presently  he  went  away.  His  father's  sisters  sent 
once  more  from  St.  Louis  an  urgent  invitation  and 
to  their  quiet  household  he  was  persuaded  to  go. 
Mary  Alcestis  composed  a  letter  saying  that  he 
had  not  been  well  and  that  he  did  not  care  at  the 
present  time  for  gayety.  Before  mailing  the  letter 
she  wrote  another  saying  that  he  had  lived  so 
entirely  with  older  folk  that  it  was  good  for  him 
to  have  gayety  and  go  about  with  young  people. 
When  she  had  finished  this  letter  the  possibility 
of  a  western  daughter-in-law  disturbed  her.  In  the 
end  she  destroyed  both  letters  and  he  set  out  un- 
encumbered by  directions. 

Casually  in  Dr.  Green's  ofiice  Dr.  Lister  asked 
about  the  marriage  of  first  cousins  and  Dr.  Green 
reached  into  the  irregular  pile  of  "Lancets"  behind 
him  and  dragged  out  a  copy,  sending  thereby  the 
superincumbent  stack  to  the  floor.  Upon  it  he  did 
not  bestow  a  glance. 

"There,  read  the  pleasant  catalogue!  Deaf  chil- 
dren, dumb  children,  children  malformed,  children 
susceptible  to  disease,  children  with  rickets,  no 
children  at  all.  I  can  give  you  a  dozen  articles  if  this 
does  n't  suffice." 

Early  in  August  the  Listers  went  to  call  upon 
Thomasina.  In  her  living-room  there  was  a  single 
dim  light,  only  a  little  brighter  than  the  moon- 
light outside.  The  rest  of  Walton ville  whose  rooms 


218  BASIL  EVERMAN 

blazed,  wondered  often  how  she  made  her  parlor  so 
restful,  so  comfortable  to  talk  in.  From  the  garden 
through  the  long  doors  came  the  odor  of  jasmine 
and  sweet  clematis  and  the  heavier  scent  of  August 
lilies. 

She  had  been  walking  in  her  garden  and  when 
she  came  in  to  meet  her  guests  there  appeared 
with  her  a  slender  young  figure  in  a  white  dress. 
Eleanor  had  come  to  show  that  she  was  not  a  fool, 
that  she  could  talk  sensibly  and  not  burst  out  cry- 
ing. Her  heart  had  changed  from  a  delicate  throb- 
bing organ  into  a  hard  lump,  but  her  eyes  were  dry. 

At  sight  of  Eleanor,  Mrs,  Lister  drew  closer  to 
Dr.  Lister,  who  looked  at  her  in  return  as  sternly 
as  he  ever  looked  at  any  one.  Thomasina  asked  at 
once  about  Richard,  where  he  was  and  how  soon  he 
would  be  at  home.  Mrs.  Scott  had  come  to  her  with 
her  story,  and  Thomasina,  concealing  her  surprise, 
had  said  that  she  saw  nothing  unsuitable  in  such 
a  friendship.  In  a  few  hours  she  ceased  even  to  be 
surprised,  she  felt  only  an  aching  envy  for  youth 
and  happiness.  She  did  not  share  Dr.  Green's  opin- 
ion that  youthful  marriages  were  suicidal.  But 
something  evidently  had  gone  wrong  between 
Richard  and  Eleanor.  Could  Mrs.  Scott  have  made 
trouble  between  them ! 

Mrs.  Lister  told  where  Richard  had  gone  and  said 
they  did  not  know  when  he  would  return. 

"He  is  going  to  New  York  late  in  the  fall,"  she 
explained.  "He  is  going  to  be  a  musician." 

Thomasina's  arm  felt  the  throb  of  Eleanor's 
heart. 


MRS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED  219 

Before  the  Listers  had  found  seats,  the  knocker 
sounded  again.  Now  the  Scotts  arrived.  This  was 
the  evening  that  Dr.  Scott  had  set  as  the  Hmit  of 
his  boredom.  Things  had  grown  no  better;  they 
had,  on  the  contrary,  grown  worse.  But  when  he 
had  set  out,  Mrs.  Scott  announced  her  intention  of 
accompanying  him,  and  she  was  now  at  his  side, 
effervescent,  sharp-voiced,  and  more  than  usually 
trying  to  her  husband. 

Eleanor  lingered,  feeling  awkward  and  unhappy. 
She  wished  to  be  alone  with  her  own  thoughts  of 
Richard,  alone  with  her  never-ending  effort  to 
account  for  his  silence,  his  departure  without  a 
good-bye.  Perhaps  he  would  write  to  her !  The  pos- 
sibility made  her  happy  for  a  second.  She  waited 
a  pause  in  the  conversation  so  that  she  might  go 
home,  but  none  came.  When  Dr.  Green  arrived, 
the  talk  grew  more  rapid  and  the  opportunity 
seemed  farther  away. 

Of  the  hard  feeling  which  she  had  exhibited 
against  Eleanor,  Mrs.  Scott  gave  now  no  sign.  She 
spoke  of  "Our  budding  authoress"  with  whom  she 
said  she  had  had  little  opportunity  thus  far  to  be- 
come acquainted.  How,  she  asked,  with  her  sweet- 
est expression,  did  one  write .^^  She  drew  a  picture  of 
Eleanor  sitting  before  a  ream  of  paper,  laying  aside 
finished  sheets  with  machine-like  regularity. 

Eleanor  made  no  answer;  she  did  not  wish  to  be 
rude,  but  she  had  no  words.  It  was  before  the  days 
when  the  reporter  penetrated  through  the  boudoir 
of  the  writer  or  artist  into  the  more  secret  regions 
of  his  work-room  to  watch  hands  flitting  above  a 


220  BASIL  EVERMAN 

typewriter,  or  to  photograph  preoccupation  at  a 
flower-laden  mahogany  desk.  Eleanor  blushed  as 
though  she  had  been  asked  to  describe  the  process 
of  putting  on  her  clothes. 

Her  silence  did  not  suggest  to  Mrs.  Scott  the 
propriety  of  stopping. 

*' What  are  you  going  to  do,  Miss  Bent?" 

"What  do  you  mean,  Mrs.  Scott.^" 

"I  mean  are  you  going  to  bury  your  talent  in 
Walton ville  or  are  you  going  into  the  great  world  .^ 
I  hear  that  women  are  going  into  all  the  fields  of 
men.  Perhaps  you  will  be  a  reporter  and  write  us 
all  up!" 

"I  have  no  plans  for  anything  of  that  kind." 

''You  speak  as  though  Walton  ville  were  a  ceme- 
tery, Mrs.  Scott,"  said  Thomasina. 

"Where  did  you  get  the  idea  for  your  little 
story .^"  persisted  Mrs.  Scott. 

It  was  clear  now  that  Eleanor  was  being  baited. 
Even  Mrs.  Lister  felt  sympathy.  Eleanor's  cheeks 
flamed;  their  color  could  be  seen  even  in  the  dim 
light.  Thomasina  was  about  to  answer,  when  Dr. 
Green  interposed. 

"Out  of  her  head,  Mrs.  Scott,  where  all  authors 
that  are  worth  while  get  theirs.  That's  where 
Shakespeare  got  his  and  where  Basil  Everman  got 
his.  Their  heads  are  differently  stocked  from  ours. 
You  don't  suppose  they  have  to  see  everything 
they  write  about,  do  you.^  Mrs.  Lister,  I  have  been 
deeply  interested  in  Basil  Everman.  I  suppose  it  is 
too  much  to  hope  for  —  but  is  it  possible  that  any- 
thing else  will  turn  up.^'-' 


MKS.  LISTER  TAKES  TO  HER  BED  221 

"I'm  afraid  not,"  answered  Dr.  Lister.  "There 
is  a  chance  of  something  in  other  magazines  of  the 
time,  but  I  fancy  they  have  been  pretty  carefully 
gone  over  in  that  hope." 

Mrs.  Scott^  never  long  quiet,  turned  to  Mrs. 
Lister. 

"Cora  had  a  letter  from  Richard." 

"Did  she.?^"  said  Mrs.  Lister.  "That  was  nice." 

She  spoke  smoothly,  but  a  sudden  pang  of  sym- 
pathy for  Eleanor  shot  through  her  heart.  Eleanor 
must  love  Richard,  could  not  do  otherwise.  His 
caring  for  Cora  became  suddenly  undesirable;  his 
tragedy  had  lifted  him  above  her.  Mrs.  Lister  was 
glad  now  that  he  was  going  away,  to  win  fame, 
to  separate  himself  from  Waltonville.  He  could 
never  emancipate  himseK  from  Mrs.  Scott  if  he 
were  her  son-in-law.  That  fate  she  could  not  wish 
any  one,  least  of  all  her  dear  child.  The  occasion  of 
his  letter  to  Cora  was  the  return  of  a  book  long 
since  lent  him  and  forgotten. 

"I  told  him  he  must  write  at  once  and  explain 
why  he  had  kept  it  so  long,"  explained  Mary 
Alcestis  simply. 

Eleanor  moved  suddenly  closer  to  Mrs.  Lister. 

"I  read  about  Basil  Everman,"  said  she  hur- 
riedly. "I  was  mortified  to  see  my  poor  story  pub- 
lished in  the  same  magazine  with  his.  I  think  he 
was  wonderful.  It  makes  Waltonville  seem  like  a 
different  place  when  one  realizes  that  he  lived  here. 
It  must  have  been  wonderful  to  be  with  him,  to 
help  him.  There  is  a  poem  about '  a  brother,  a  sister, 
anything  to  thee!'  My  mother  says  she  remembers 


222  BASIL  EVERMAN 

him  well.  I  think  she  knew  him  quite  well  and  ad- 
mired him  very  much.  I  told  her  she  ought  to  come 
to  you  and  talk  to  you  about  him.'* 

"Yes,"  said  Mrs.  Lister  faintly. 

It  seemed  to  her  that  she  went  on  saying  "yes" 
interminably.  She  saw  tearful  Mrs.  Bent,  laying 
her  hand  on  Richard's  coach,  her  little  gray-eyed 
daughter  clinging  to  her  and  staring  round-eyed 
at  the  other  baby.  She  had  not  described  this  inci- 
dent in  full  either  to  Dr.  Lister  or  to  Richard.  She 
could  not  confess  how  sharply  she  had  refused  to 
talk  to  Mrs.  Bent;  how  she  had  backed  away,  liter- 
ally pulling  the  coach  from  under  her  hand;  how 
eyes  and  voice  had  expressed  horror  and  anger.  It 
was  not  likely,  whatever  her  daughter  might  think, 
that  Mrs.  Bent  would  approach  her  again!  But 
equally  dreadful  things  had  happened.  She  looked 
at  poor  Eleanor  now  as  she  had  looked  at  her 
mother;  then  she  rose  to  go.  The  next  morning  she 
stayed  in  bed,  waiting  for  the  blow  to  fall. 


CHAPTER  XVm 

MRS.  LISTER  HAS  TWO  CALLERS 

Mrs.  Lister  would  not  at  first  see  Dr.  Green.  She 
insisted  that  she  was  only  tired  and  that  she  would 
be  out  of  bed  and  downstairs  by  to-morrow.  She 
had  been  like  this  after  her  father  and  Basil  had 
died,  and  she  had  recovered  then  without  the  help 
of  a  doctor.  It  was  her  mind  and  not  her  body 
which  was  ailing  and  there  was  no  medicine  for 
her  mind. 

Nor  should  Richard  be  sent  for.  She  answered 
the  suggestion  impatiently. 

"I  am  only  too  thankful  that  he  is  away.  I  want 
him  to  be  away.  I  used  to  want  him  to  be  here 
always  and  to  have  this  house  when  we  are  gone 
and  marry  Cora  Scott  and  have  little  children,  but 
now  I  believe  the  best  thing  for  him  is  to  stay  away. 
I  think  I  did  wrong  to  dissuade  you  when  you  had 
the  call  from  the  New  York  College,  papa.  We 
would  have  plenty  for  him,  would  n't  we,  even  if  he 
does  n't  succeed  with  his  music?" 

Dr.  Lister  laughed. 

"Don't  add  that  to  your  other  worries,  Mary 
Alcestis!  Richard  is  not  the  kind  to  fail." 

"I  could  easily  economize  in  the  house.  There 
are  many  things  one  can  do  without  if  one  only 
thinks  so." 

Most  of  the  time  she  lay  still  thinking.  She 


224  BASIL  EVERMAN 

turned  over  and  over  in  her  mind  the  old  days, 
their  routine,  their  precepts.  She  tried  to  excuse 
Basil,  to  find  some  flaw  in  his  bringing-up.  But  she 
had  had  exactly  the  same  bringing-up  and  she  had 
always  been  obedient  to  her  parents  and  to  the 
laws  of  society  and  of  God.  The  flaw  must  have 
been  in  him. 

She  thought  of  Mrs.  Bent  as  a  young  girl  with 
her  pretty  face.  She  had  seemed,  at  least,  superior 
to  her  father  and  her  station.  It  was  not  perhaps 
her  fault  that  she  had  gone  astray,  and  helped 
others  to  go  astray.  She  had  not  had  any  bring- 
ing-up, poor  soul,  except  what  she  had  given  her- 
self. But  one  could  not  excuse  her,  could  not  look 
lightly  upon  dreadful  sin!  Again  Mary  Alcestis 
heard  that  frantic  pleading  in  the  dark  on  Cherry 
Street,  saw  again  Basil's  bending  face  in  the  light 
of  the  dim  street  lamp. 

"It  would  be  best  to  go  away,"  said  Basil  dis- 
tinctly. 

When,  at  last,  she  tried  to  go  downstairs,  she 
found  herself  unequal  to  the  exertion.  She  rose, 
walked  about  the  room,  and  returned  as  quickly 
as  possible  to  bed,  her  knees  trembling,  darkness 
before  her  eyes.  Then,  at  last,  she  consented  to 
have  Dr.  Green  prescribe  for  her.  She  could  lie  here 
no  longer;  she  must  be  up  and  about  her  business, 
which  was  the  defending  of  her  house  and  her  name 
from  disgrace. 

Dr.  Green  came,  whistling  softly,  up  the  stairs 
and  into  her  room.  There  he  let  his  tall  figure  down 
into  an  armchair.  His  eyes  were  unusually  bright. 


MRS.  LISTER  HAS  TWO  CALLERS  225 

his  hair  had  just  been  trimmed,  his  clothes  were, 
comparatively  speaking,  smooth.  He  was  really, 
thought  Mrs.  Lister,  rather  a  handsome  man. 

He  said  that  her  illness  was  merely  exhaustion 
due  to  the  heat.  He  would  send  her  some  medicine 
and  she  must  stay  in  bed  for  another  week.  He 
expected  to  go  to  Baltimore  for  a  few  days  and  she 
was  upon  no  account  to  stir  until  he  got  back. 

"You  take  life  far  too  strenuously.  I  dare  say 
you  are  saving  'Manda  all  the  time." 

When  his  taking  of  her  pulse  and  his  somewhat 
perfunctory  inquiry  about  her  symptoms  were  over, 
he  did  not  go.  The  room  was  deliciously  cool  after 
the  blazing  heat  through  which  he  had  walked  and 
there  was  even  a  slight  breeze,  blowing  in  between 
the  slats  of  the  bowed  shutters  and  swaying  the  cur- 
tains gently.  'Manda  came  presently  with  a  tray  and 
a  glass  of  lemonade  and  he  called  down  the  bless- 
ings of  Heaven  upon  her  in  his  extravagant  way. 

When  she  had  gone  he  asked  Mrs.  Lister,  by  way 
of  opening  a  pleasant  and  soothing  conversation, 
whether  she  had  read  Eleanor  Bent's  story. 

"Yes,"  answered  Mrs.  Lister. 

"Did  you  think  it  was  a  good  story?" 

Mrs.  Lister  answered  with  a  fainter  "yes."  She 
was  determined  to  give  poor  Eleanor  her  due;  in- 
deed, "Professor  EUenborough's  Last  Class"  was 
not  nearly  so  "wild"  as  she  expected.  Then  she 
ventured  a  question. 

"Dr.  Green,  if  a  person  has  talent,  is  it  likely  to 
be  inlierited,  or  does  it  spring  up  of  itseK  ?  " 

Dr.  Green,  strange  to  say,  flushed  scarlet.  Mrs. 


226  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Lister  grew  panic-stricken.  What  had  she  said? 
What  did  he  know?  What  might  she  not  have  put 
into  his  head?  She  wished  that  he  would  go,  she 
became  suddenly  afraid  of  her  own  tongue.  He 
began  a  lengthy  dissertation  upon  the  laws  of  he- 
redity as  laid  down  by  scientists.  Some  one  among 
Eleanor's  ancestors  had  certainly  had  brains  and 
had  used  them.  She  had  a  very  good  mind;  she 
might  go  far  if  she  could  be  brought  to  value  her 
talent  as  it  should  be  valued;  if  she  could  be  per- 
suaded to  hold  it  higher  than  any  marital  experi- 
ence, for  instance. 

*'I  do  not  think  marriage  is  for  every  one," 
agreed  Mary  Alcestis.  "There  are  some  people  who 
do  not  seem  equal  to  its  demands." 

Dr.  Green  sniffed  the  pleasant  air. 

*'I  think  Eleanor  would  be  equal  to  it.  I  meant 
it  would  probably  ruin  her  career.  I  think  the  ma- 
jority of  young  people  have  been  tricked,  trapped, 
by  the  instinct  to  mate." 

''Oh!"  said  Mary  Alcestis.  "I  don't  agree  with 
you." 

''She  ought  to  have  new  experiences  of  life," 
went  on  Dr.  Green.  "She  should  get  out  of  this 
back  water  into  the  fuller  current."  He  was  rather 
pleased  with  his  metaphor. 

A  gleam  of  hope  illuminated  Mrs.  Lister's  despair. 

*' Perhaps  we  could  help,"  she  said  eagerly.  "Her 
mother  must  have  found  her  education  and  her 
clothing  rather  expensive.  She  always  wears  such 
very  pretty  clothes.  And  she  takes  lessons  from 
Thomasina,  and  I  hear  —  I  hear  she  has  a  very 


MRS.  LISTER  HAS  TWO  CALLERS  227 

fine  piano.  IS  we  could  do  anything  in  a  quiet  way 
for  her,  I  am  sure  Dr.  Lister  would  be  willing.  I  — 
we  should  be  very,  very  glad." 

**I  think  there  is  no  lack  of  money,"  said  Dr. 
Green. 

Then  with  a  promptness  which  indicated  to  Mrs. 
Lister  a  connection  in  his  mind  between  the  two 
subjects,  he  began  to  speak  of  Basil  Everman. 

"Your  brother  must  have  been  a  very  brilliant 
person." 

Mary  Alcestis's  body  moved  with  a  slight  con- 
vulsive motion  under  the  bed-covers. 

"He  was  a  dear  little  boy,"  said  she.  "He  and 
Thomasina  Davis  and  I  used  to  play  together." 

"His  death  was  a  calamity,"  said  Dr.  Green. 
"But  I  need  n't  tell  you  that,  for  no  one  could  value 
him  as  highly  as  you  do,  naturally.  But  it  was  a 
pity,  a  very  great  pity.  I  suppose  we  will  have  a 
book  about  him  some  day.  Eleanor  Bent  might  do 
such  a  piece  of  work  when  she's  older.  Biography  is 
far  more  interesting  and  far  harder  to  do  well  than 
fiction.  Eleanor  —  " 

"Did  you  say  you  were  going  to  Baltimore?" 
asked  Mrs.  Lister  faintly. 

Dr.  Green  pulled  out  his  watch. 

"I  am  going  to  Baltimore  in  exactly  one  half- 
hour  and  I  have  a  satchel  to  pack.  Good-bye  and 
do  as  I  tell  you." 

Mrs.  Lister  lay  in  a  cold  perspiration.  Eleanor 
writing  a  book  about  Basil!  She  tried  to  grip  the 
smooth  sheet  drawn  tightly  over  the  smooth  mat- 
tress; finally  she  put  both  hands  over  her  face.  She 


228  BASEL  EVERMAN 

«<» 

forgot  Basil,  she  forgot  Richard,  she  forgot  every- 
thing except  a  prayer  that  she  might  not  scream. 

Thomasina  came  in  the  front  door  as  Dr.  Green 
went  out.  She  was  told  by  him  that  Mrs.  Lister  was 
only  exhausted  by  the  heat,  that  company  would 
do  her  good,  and  that  she,  Thomasina,  should  go 
upstairs  and  stay  as  long  as  she  could.  She  glanced 
about  as  she  went  through  the  hall,  her  mind  filled 
with  pleasant  recollections  of  the  former  dwellers 
in  the  high-ceilinged  rooms.  A  friendship  handed 
down  from  generation  to  generation  as  was  hers 
with  the  Everman  family  was  rare  and  precious. 

She  laid  her  rose-colored  parasol  on  the  hall  table 
and  went  slowly  up  the  stairs.  When  she  had  almost 
reached  the  top,  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  smothered 
sob,  and  remembered  with  a  pang  the  days  when 
she  had  sat  with  Mary  Alcestis  beside  her  father's 
coffin.  Poor  Mary  Alcestis  had  had  a  good  deal  to 
bear.  What  could  be  the  matter  now.^^  Surely,  surely 
nothing  could  have  happened  to  Richard!  Thoma- 
sina hastened  her  steps. 

Mrs.  Lister  lay  face  downward,  her  cheek  pressed 
deep  into  the  pillow.  Her  hands  were  clenched  above 
her  head  and  the  bed  shook  with  the  violence  of 
her  weeping.  She  had  now  passed  the  limit  of  endur- 
ance. 

Thomasina  went  close  to  the  ample  bed  with  its 
quivering  figure. 

"Mary  Alcestis,  I  am  here  and  I  will  stay  with 
you.  If  it  does  you  good  to  cry,  I  '11  stand  guard,  so 
cry  away." 

Thomasina  bowed   one   shutter   a  little   more 


MRS.  LISTER  HAS  TWO  CALLERS  229 

closely  and  closed  the  door  and  then  sat  down  in 
the  chair  which  Dr.  Green  had  left.  There  could  be 
nothing  the  matter  with  Richard,  or  Dr.  Green 
would  have  told  her. 

Mrs.  Lister  did  not,  as  Thomasina  suggested, 
have  her  cry  out.  She  tried  at  once  to  control  her- 
self, and  succeeded  bravely  with  her  tears.  But  the 
hysterical  impulse  was  not  spent.  It  would  have 
been  better  if  she  had  continued  to  weep,  but  in- 
stead she  began  to  talk,  and  having  begun,  could 
not  stop. 

She  told  Thomasina  the  whole  story  of  Basil 
from  the  day  of  his  birth  as  though  Thomasina  had 
never  seen  or  heard  of  him. 

"  We  did  everything  we  could  for  him,  father  and 
I  —  everything.  I  felt  I  must  make  up  mother's  loss 
to  him.  We—" 

^'Everything  except  understand  hmiy^  said  Thoma- 
sina to  herself. 

"We  prayed  —  that  is  father  did  —  with  him, 
and  talked  with  him,  and  labored  with  him,  and 
watched  for  him." 

^'But  did  not  sympathize  with  him^^  said  Thoma- 
sina, again  to  herself. 

"But  when  it  came  to  Margie  Ginter,  oh,  Thoma- 
sina! it  was  too  hard  with  father  the  president  of 
the  college  and  so  admir  — " 

"To  Margie  Ginter!"  repeated  Thomasina. 

"Oh,  hush,  Thomasina!  Do  not  speak  so  loud!  I 
have  never  talked  about  it  with  you,  because  it 
was  my  own  brother,  and  I  wanted  you  to  think 
as  well  as  you  could  of  him,  and  because  we  have 


230  BASIL  EVERMAN 

never  talked  about  such  things.  But  you  must 
know,  Thomasina ! " 

"I  know  nothing!** 

"I  mean  you  will  have  to  know,  because  it  is 
creeping  out." 

"Creeping  out!"  Thomasina's  voice  was  horror- 
sstruck.  "What  is  creeping  out?" 

"He  began  to  go  with  Margie  Ginter  here.  He 
walked  with  her  in  the  evenings  and  he  used  to  go 
often  to  the  tavern.  You  know  how  we  used  to  run 
past  the  tavern,  Thomasina!" 

"This  is  madness,  Mary  Alcestis!" 

"It  is  not.  I  saw  them  and  heard  them.  I  was 
coming  home  from  your  house  and  I  heard  them. 
She  was  pleading  with  Basil  to  help  her  and  he  said 
it  would  be  best  to  go  away.  She  was  crying,  and  I 
followed  them  down  Cherry  Street.  I  felt  I  must 
know  so  as  to  tell  my  father.  It  was  very  dark  and 
a  storm  was  coming,  but  I  followed  them  neverthe- 
less." 

"Followed  them.?^" 

"It  was  my  duty.  Don't  look  at  me  like  that, 
Thomasina!  Do  you  suppose  I  would  believe  any- 
thing against  Basil  I  didn't  have  to  believe.^  I 
never  loved  any  one  more  than  him  —  not  even 
Richard,  you  know  that.  I  have  had  this  hanging 
over  me  for  years.  You  have  n't  had  much  experi- 
ence with  trouble  or  sorrow  or  you  would  under- 
stand better  than  you  do.  And  then  this  dreadful 
Mr.  Utterly  from  New  York  determined  to  pry  into 
our  affairs.  It  is  a  wonder  that  I  am  living  to-day, 
indeed  it  is!" 


MRS.  LISTER  HAS  TWO  CALLERS  231 

"Basil  did  nothing  that  could  not  be  published 
to  the  world!"  said  Thomasina  sharply.  "What  is 
the  matter  with  you?  What  are  you  afraid  of?  Have 
you  repeated  this  to  any  one  else?" 

"You  know  me  better  than  that,"  said  Mrs. 
Lister  with  dignity.  "  You  have  been  my  companion 
since  we  were  children.  How  can  you  ask  such  a 
question?" 

"But  what  do  you  mean?  What  is  there  to  sus- 
pect about  Basil?  What  is  creeping  out?" 

"You  are  so  sharp-witted  about  many  things, 
Thomasina.  You  know  so  much  more  than  I  do  in 
so  many  ways.  You  know  what  I  mean  and  yet 
you  pretend  that  you  do  not ! " 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean!" 

"Even  Mr.  Utterly  saw  that  Eleanor  Bent  has 
eyes  like  Basil  and  he  never  saw  her  but  once  or 
twice.  You  can't  fail  to  see  it!  And  there  is  this 
writing!" 

Thomasina  always  sat  quietly,  but  now  she 
seemed  to  have  turned  to  stone.  After  a  long  time 
Mary  Alcestis  took  her  hands  from  her  eyes  and 
looked  up. 

"You  look  at  me  as  though  I  were  a  fool  and 
wicked,  too,  Thomasina." 

Thomasina  made  no  answer,  but  continued  to 
stare  with  a  face  as  white  as  Mrs.  Lister's  sheets. 
Mrs.  Lister  sat  up  suddenly  in  bed. 

"I  hear  some  one  downstairs,  I  believe  it  is  Dr, 
Lister.  Will  you  tell  him,  Thomasina,  that  I  am 
trying  to  sleep?" 

Thomasina  rose  quickly. 


232  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"You  are  a  fool,  Mary  Alcestis,"  said  she  slowly. 

"Oh,  Thomasina!"  Mary  Aleestis  laid  herself 
down. 

"This  is  an  invention  of  your  own  brain.  Shame 
upon  you,  Mary  Aleestis ! " 

Mrs.  Lister  now  covered  her  face  with  the  sheet. 

Thomasina  went  out  and  closed  the  door.  The 
astonishment  in  her  eyes  had  changed  to  a  sick 
horror.  She  held  feebly  to  the  hand  rail  as  she  de- 
scended the  steps.  For  the  first  moment  in  her  life 
she  looked  old.  She  heard  Dr.  Lister  moving  about 
in  his  study,  but  she  did  not  deliver  Mary  Alcestis's 
message.  It  made  no  difference  to  her  whether  or 
not  Mary  Aleestis  was  disturbed  in  her  sleep. 

Forgetting  to  raise  her  sunshade,  she  crossed  the 
sunniest  spaces  of  the  campus  without  feeling  the 
heat,  and  went  down  the  street  past  her  own  gate- 
way to  Dr.  Green's  office.  There  she  waited,  sitting 
straight  in  a  small  stiff  chair  until  black  Virginia, 
in  answer  to  her  ring,  entered  from  a  distant  quar- 
ter of  the  house.  Virginia  blinked  away  the  last 
drowsiness  of  her  mid-morning  nap  as  she  looked, 
admiringly  at  Thomasina. 

"Doctor's  gone  away,  Miss  Thomas'.'* 

"Whereto.?" 

"Baltimore." 

"I  saw  him  less  than  an  hour  ago." 

"Yessum,  but  he  went  to  the  train  like  a  cy- 
clone." 

"  When  will  he  be  back.?  " 

"Couple  o'  days,  I  guess.  Was  yo'  sick,  Miss 
Thomas'.?" 


MRS.  LISTER  HAS  TWO  CALLERS  233 

Thomasina  rose  unsteadily. 

"No." 

"Shall  I  write  anything  on  the  slate.^" 

"No,  thank  you,  Virginia." 

"  Can  I  get  you  a  glass  o'  water,  Miss  Thomas'?  " 

"No,  thank  you." 

With  a  dragging  step,  Thomasina  proceeded  on 
her  way.  She  opened  her  door  and  entered  the  hall 
and  looked  up  the  broad  stairway  toward  the  sec- 
ond floor.  The  stairway  seemed  very  steep,  and  she 
stepped  quickly  into  her  parlor  and  shut  the  door 
and  sat  down  in  the  nearest  chair.  By  this  time  she 
looked  like  death. 


CHAPTER  XIX 

MRS.  LISTER  OPENS  AN  OLD  BUREAU 

Mrs.  Lister  lay  motionless  for  many  moments 
after  Thomasina  had  left.  Exhausted  both  mentally 
and  physically  she  was  for  a  little  while  dull  to  her 
own  woes.  She  should  not  have  talked  to  Thoma- 
sina, but  neither  should  Thomasina  have  responded 
as  she  did.  Thomasina  had  put  her  in  the  wrong, 
she  had  not  acted  like  a  friend. 

"As  though  I  made  it  up!"  sobbed  Mary  Aloes- 
tis.  "What  does  she  think  I  am.^" 

Once  more  she  dropped  into  a  doze  which  was  not 
so  much  physical  as  mental.  She  dreamed  that  a 
dreadful  danger  threatened  them  all,  like  the  col- 
lapse of  the  solid  Lister  house,  and  imder  the  im- 
pression of  the  dream  she  stepped  from  bed  without 
being  fully  awake.  Once  on  her  feet,  she  understood 
its  significance  and  determined  to  carry  out  that 
which  she  had  long  intended.  She  felt  under  the 
edge  of  the  bed  for  her  slippers  and  put  them  on 
and  wrapped  round  her  a  capacious  dressing-gown. 
Locomotion,  tried  at  first  warily,  proved  easier 
than  she  expected.  Opening  the  door,  she  stood  still 
and  listened.  Dr.  Lister  was  doubtless  comfortable 
in  the  conviction  that  she  was  asleep  and  would 
consequently  be  lost  in  his  book  until  dinner-time. 

Opening  the  door  more  widely,  she  stepped  out 
into  the  hall.  She  was  not  accustomed  to  stealing 


MRS.  LISTER  OPENS  AN  OLD  BUREAU      235 

about  her  own  house  and  her  weakness  and  the 
throbbing  of  her  heart  terrified  her.  But  with  the 
foresight  of  one  accustomed  to  sly  deeds,  she  closed 
the  door  softly.  If  her  husband  came  upstairs  he 
would  think  that  she  was  asleep  and  he  would  not 
disturb  her.  She  went  stealthily  along  the  hall  to  the 
stairway  and  stopped  once  more.  There  were  certain 
steps  tliat  creaked  so  that  they  could  be  heard  all 
over  the  house,  but  she  knew  which  steps  they  were 
and  with  painful  care  stepped  over  them.  Her 
dressing-gown  got  in  her  way  and  almost  tripped 
her,  and  she  steadied  herself  by  the  aid  of  the  ban- 
ister and  stood  for  a  long  time  trembling. 

"I  shall  say  I  am  going  to  find  something  I  need," 
she  planned.  "I  have  a  perfect  right  to  go  into  my 
own  attic." 

But  mercifully  she  heard  no  sound  nearly  as  loud 
as  the  throbbing  of  her  own  heart.  Each  step  made 
her  feel  weaker  and  more  miserable  as  it  lifted  her 
into  the  hot  darkness  of  the  third-story  hall  with 
its  smell  of  dry  wood  and  camphor  and  other  faintly 
odorous  objects.  The  shutters  were  closed  tight 
and  the  blinds  were  drawn,  but  through  them  and 
through  the  roof  the  sun  penetrated  until  the  air 
was  furnace-heated.  She  gasped,  feeling  a  sharp 
pain  in  her  head,  but  she  moved  on,  her  hand 
against  the  wall,  to  the  door  of  Basil's  room. 

There  she  turned  the  key  and  entered.  The  tem- 
perature was  higher  than  that  of  the  hall  and  the 
odors  stronger  and  more  significant.  Each  simple 
article  of  furniture,  the  narrow  bed,  the  high,  old- 
fashioned  bureau,  the  Uttle  washstand  with  its 


2S6  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Spartan  fittings,  a  single  chair,  a  little  table,  the 
old  trunk,  all  was  as  it  had  been  for  twenty  years. 
In  it  was  no  life  or  reminder  of  life;  it  was  empty, 
terrible  as  an  old  burial  vault. 

She  did  not  open  a  window  and  thereby  admit 
a  breath  of  saving  though  heated  air;  her  purpose 
must  be  quickly  accomplished  and  admitted  of  no 
discovery  and  no  interruption.  She  believed  that  if 
any  one  should  come  upon  her  suddenly  at  this 
moment  she  would  die  of  shock.  She  went  directly 
to  the  old  bureau  and  opened  the  upper  drawer. 
There,  each  garment  wrapped  in  paper  with  a  little 
piece  of  camphor  in  its  folds,  lay  specimens  of  Basil's 
clothes  going  as  far  back  as  a  little  winter  coat  dis- 
carded when  he  was  five.  How  often  had  she  wept 
over  them !  How  speedily  her  husband  or  Thomasina 
would  have  consigned  them  to  the  flames,  refusing 
to  connect  a  human  life  with  the  garments  of  the 
past,  now  so  grotesque ! 

Thrusting  her  hand  beneath  the  lower  layer,  she 
brought  out  a  key  and  with  it  opened  the  second 
drawer.  Then  she  stood  very  still.  The  drawer  was 
not  filled  to  the  top,  but  held  only  a  few  large,  thick 
old  tablets  in  a  pile,  a  few  books,  a  small  handful  of 
letters,  a  haK-dozen  pens  and  pencils,  a  little  pen- 
wiper and  a  half-dozen  packages  of  paper  thickly 
covered  with  writing  in  a  small,  delicate  hand. 

She  lifted  the  tablets  and,  trembling,  turned  the 
yellowed  pages,  also  covered  with  close  writing.  She 
lifted  the  packages  of  paper  and  laid  them  softly 
back.  When  she  took  the  letters  in  her  hand, 
tears  ran  down  her  cheeks.    Here  was  her  father's 


MRS.  LISTER  OPENS  AN  OLD  BUREAU      2S7 

handwriting,  here  her  own,  here  even  her  mother's. 
Only  once  had  Mrs.  Everman  left  her  home,  and  it 
was  then,  upon  the  occasion  of  a  funeral  in  her 
family,  that  she  had  written  to  her  children.  That 
he  had  kept  this  letter,  which,  when  it  came,  he 
had  been  too  young  to  read,  or  even  to  understand, 
was  a  redeeming,  a  consoling  incident  in  Basil's 
life.  The  little  penwiper  moved  her  most  strongly. 
She  remembered  when  it  was  made,  what  scraps  of 
her  own  dresses  composed  it;  she  laid  it  carefully 
away. 

But  she  treated  the  relics  of  Basil's  mind  with 
no  such  tenderness.  She  lifted  one  of  the  packages 
of  manuscript  in  her  hands.  She  was  not  mad 
or  wicked,  poor  Mary  Alcestis,  she  was  only  de- 
voted to  what  was  seemly  and  right.  This  was  a 
duty  which  she  owed  Basil,  a  duty  which  she  should 
have  performed  long  ago.  Persons  changed  their 
opinions  as  they  grew  older  and  he,  could  he  have 
survived,  would  have  come  to  regret  those  stories 
of  love  and  crime  and  hate  which  he  had  written, 
which  would  now  so  cruelly  reveal  his  soul.  Had  not 
Mr.  Utterly  confirmed  all  her  own  convictions  on 
this  point .'^  Loving  Basil,  she  would  do  exactly  as 
she  knew  he  would  wish  her  to  do !  She  would  do  it 
quickly.  Certain  remarks  of  Dr.  Lister's  in  other 
connections  made  her  fear  that  he  would  be  not 
upon  her  side  and  that  of  Basil's  good,  but  upon  the 
side  of  Basil's  youth.  Standing  tall,  loosely  wrapped 
in  her  long  robe,  she  looked  for  once  in  her  life 
heroic,  like  a  sybil  or  prophetess.  Her  hands  grasped 
the  paper  and  she  tried  to  tear  the  whole  across. 


238  BASIL  EVERMAN 

But  the  paper  was  still  tough  in  spite  of  its  age 
and  she  had  to  lay  the  package  down  and  take  a 
few  sheets  at  a  time.  The  slow  process  made  her 
nervous;  it  seemed  hours  since  she  had  come  into 
the  room.  She  tore  the  half-dozen  sheets  across, 
then  dropped  them  into  the  pitcher  on  the  little 
washstand.  When  she  had  finished  she  would  carry 
them  downstairs.  'Manda  had  a  good  fiire  at  this 
time  of  day. 

She  lifted  six  other  sheets  and  tore  them  across. 
She  remembered  dimly  the  story  of  the  manuscript 
of  some  famous  and  important  book  accidentally 
fed  day  after  day  to  the  fire.  But  that  was  a  great 
work  of  philosophy  or  history  or  theology,  it  was 
not  anything  like  poor  Basil's  stories !  She  saw  as 
she  proceeded  a  few  clear  words,  "Hunger  knows 
no  niceties  and  passion  no  laws,"  and  she  shud- 
dered. They  could  not  too  soon  perish,  these  utter- 
ances of  Basil's  sad,  uncontrolled  youth! 

Suddenly  she  began  to  feel  faint.  She  remem- 
bered again  the  story  of  the  bride  locked  into  the 
great  chest.  But  that  was  nonsense!  Dr.  Lister 
would  soon  find  her.  Was  he  not  coming,  did  she 
not  hear  steps,  a  voice,  did  she  not  feel  —  not  a 
hand  touching  her  —  but  a  breath  upon  her  cheek  .f^ 
Thomasina  had  said  —  what  was  it  Thomasina  had 

SSLld? 

She  pushed  the  drawer  shut,  all  but  a  crack,  then 
she  moved  slowly  and  with  dignity  toward  Basil's 
bed.  She  would  lie  down  and  after  a  little  rest 
strength  would  return.  Then  she  would  go  on, 
tearing  the  papers  into  finer  and  ever  finer  bits. 


CHAPTER  XX 

basil's  room  has  a  new  visitor 

Dr.  Lister  read  the  "Times"  and  "Public  Opin- 
ion" until  he  heard  'Manda  setting  the  dinner- 
table.  Then  he  folded  his  papers,  glanced  out 
through  the  pleasant  medium  of  dim  green  light 
under  his  awning,  raised  his  arms  above  his  head 
in  a  motion  which  relieved  cramped  muscles, 
yawned,  and  wondered  about  Mary  Alcestis.  Re- 
proaching himself  because  he  had  not  gone  directly 
to  her  side  when  he  came  in,  he  went  upstairs. 

He  found  her  door  closed  and  upon  listening  with 
his  ear  against  the  frame,  felt  confident  that  he 
heard  a  gentle  breathing.  He  opened  the  door,  hold- 
ing the  knob  so  that  it  should  make  no  noise,  and 
looked  into  the  darkened  room.  WTien  his  vision 
reached  the  bedspread,  turned  down  over  the  bed's 
foot,  he  withdrew.  What  Mary  Alcestis  needed  was 
sleep.  She  needed  also  absence  from  these  familiar 
scenes.  He  determined  that  he  would  propose  a 
journey,  much  as  he  disliked  leaving  his  pleasant 
home  in  summer.  They  might  go  and  bring  Richard 
home,  all  returning  by  way  of  Niagara  Falls;  they 
might  even  take  him  directly  to  New  York  and 
see  him  settled  there.  By  next  summer  he  would 
look  back  on  his  miseries  with  astonishment  at  him- 
self. Youth  was  so  resilient;  it  changed  and  forgot, 
thank  God!  Tiptoeing  downstairs  Dr.  Lister  ate 


^0  BASEL  EVERMAN 

^is  dinner,  still  more  reassured  by  'Manda's  state- 
ment that  her  mistress  had  given  orders  early  in 
the  morning  that  she  was  not  to  be  disturbed. 

As  he  sat  alone  at  his  meal,  he  thought  of  Basil 
who  had  so  often  sat  here  looking  over  the  broad 
meadow  toward  the  creek  where  he,  like  Richard, 
had  fished  when  he  was  a  little  boy.  How  pleasant 
it  was  to  be  safe  and  alive,  with  friends,  bodily  com- 
forts, good  books;  how  dreadful  to  be  struck  down, 
cut  off  from  life  and  sunshine  and  work.  How  sad 
to  be  forgotten,  to  have  no  place  in  the  memory  of 
man,  even  in  the  minds  of  one's  contemporaries. 
His  thoughts  turned  from  Basil's  life  to  his  own. 
What  had  he  done  to  be  remembered  except  by  a 
few  persons  connected  with  him  by  ties  of  blood  .^ 
A  few  short  texts  edited,  a  few  boys  and  girls  taught 
a  little  Greek!  Alas,  during  the  most  of  his  adult 
years  he  had  been  satisfied  to  get  merely  his  aca- 
demic work  done  and  to  make  no  further  effort. 
This  house,  he  believed,  with  all  its  soft  comforts 
had  been  bad  for  him;  he  had  had  so  many  more 
plans,  so  many  high  ambitions  when  he  was  a  strug- 
gling young  man,  before  Mary  Alcestis  had  begun 
to  pillow  his  existence.  He  saw  once  more  Basil  in 
this  quiet  house.  How  he  must  have  filled  it  with 
unrest  and  discontent! 

When  he  had  finished  his  dinner,  he  went  to 
his  wife's  door.  Again  he  was  certain  of  the  breath- 
ing which  was  restoring  her  to  herself. 

As  he  descended  the  stairs  he  heard  a  strange 
and  startling  sound,  a  loud,  thin  twang  metallic 
and  musical.  He  had  forgotten  that  the  old  piano 


BASIL'S  ROOM  HAS  A  NEW  VISITOR        241 

gave  occasional  expression  to  a  complaint  over  the 
misery  and  dreariness  of  age  and  felt  for  an  instant 
his  flesh  creep.  Then,  smiling  at  himself,  he  wenl 
on  to  his  study. 

But  he  could  not  read.  The  musical  vibration 
lingered  in  the  air,  disturbing  him.  He  even  walked 
into  the  parlor  and  laid  his  hand  on  the  red  cover  of 
Basil's  old  piano.  He  hoped  that  it  would  make  no 
such  sound  again,  he  felt  that  it  would  disturb  him 
greatly.  He  walked  about  uneasily  and  then  re- 
turned to  his  study  and  got  out  of  the  lower  drawer 
of  his  desk  some  old  notes.  He  had  once  made  plans 
for  a  translation  of  the  "Medea,"  he  had  even  be- 
gun it  —  was  it  now  too  late  to  snatch  a  little  fame 
from  the  passing  years  .^  He  turned  over  his  old 
notes  eagerly,  then  more  slowly.  But  his  taste  had 
changed  as  had  his  handwriting  and  the  lines  seemed 
stiff,  the  whole  stilted  and  poor.  Young  faces  seemed 
to  smile  at  him.  Poetry,  even  in  translation,  was  for 
the  Basils  and  not  for  him.  Medea  did  not  com- 
panion with  Mary  Alcestis!  He  lay  down  to  his 
afternoon  nap. 

At  four  o'clock  he  woke  with  a  start.  He  had 
been  wandering  in  a  deep  cave  and  great  waters 
fell  and  rushed  about  him.  Sometimes  delicious 
peace  and  coolness  encircled  him;  again  he  strug- 
gled in  a  steaming  bath.  Rousing,  he  remembered 
suddenly  that  he  was  a  man  of  family  with  a  sick 
wife  whom  he  had  not  seen  for  a  good  many  hours. 
He  went  rapidly  toward  the  stairway  and  for  the 
third  time  approached  the  closed  door.  This  time 
he  did  not  stop  to  listen,  but  rapped  and  turned 


242  BASIL  EVERMAN 

the  knob.  To  his  astonishment,  Mary  Alcestis  was 
not  there.  Moreover,  the  covers  lay  over  the  foot 
of  the  bed  just  as  they  had  lain  in  the  morning,  and 
he  saw  now  that  the  drapery  was  not  merely  the 
spread,  but  sheet  and  blanket  as  well.  Was  it  pos- 
sible that  the  bed  could  have  been  empty  when 
he  looked  before.^ 

At  once  he  went  from  room  to  room.  She  had 
doubtless  sought  greater  coolness  in  another  spot. 
Richard's  room  —  she  was  not  there,  one  guest- 
room, another  —  she  was  nowhere.  He  remem- 
bered the  attic  and  went  toward  the  steps. 

"Mary  Alcestis!"  he  called. 

The  echoes  of  his  own  voice  answered  him.  She 
could  not  be  so  mad  as  to  sit  in  Basil's  room  on  a 
day  like  this !  He  took  the  steps  in  bounds. 

He  found  her  on  Basil's  bed.  Her  eyes  were  open 
and  she  greeted  him  with  a  feeble  smile. 

"I  called  you,  Thomas,  but  I  guess  you  did  n't 
hear." 

"Why,  Mary  Alcestis!  What  are  you  doing  here? 
How  long  have  you  been  here?" 

"Not  so  very  long."  The  statement  was  true  so 
far  as  Mary  Alcestis  knew.  She  thought  that  she 
had  slept  a  little  while.  "I  came  up  to  get  something 
I  wanted  and  1  found  I  had  n't  strength  to  get  back. 
You  will  help  me,  won't  you.^^" 

Dr.  Lister  lifted  the  window  and  thrust  open  the 
shutter,  pushing  hard  to  free  it  from  the  vines.  It 
was  like  an  oven  out  of  doors,  but  the  air  there  was 
at  least  better  than  this ! 

"I  am  afraid  the  flies  will  come  in,  Thomas,'* 
protested  Mary  Alcestis  in  a  stronger  voice. 


BASIL'S  ROOM  HAS  A  NEW  VISITOR        243 

"Let  them!"  said  Dr.  Lister.  "Of  course  I  did  n't 
hear  you !  I  have  been  again  and  again  to  your  door 
and  I  thought  you  were  asleep  and  that  sleep  was 
the  best  medicine  for  you.  Come,  my  dear,  you 
must  try  to  get  downstairs  at  once.  This  atmosphere 
is  enough  to  sicken  a  well  person." 

"I  —  I  came  up  on  an  errand.  I  did  n't  mean  to 
stay  long."  Mary  Alcestis's  eyes  sought  the  bureau. 
Had  she  closed  the  drawer .^^  "Then  I  grew  faint,  I 
guess,  from  the  heat.  If  I  had  a  little  food  I  would 
feel  stronger,  then  I  could  walk  downstairs.  Does 
'Manda  have  lunch  ready  .f^" 

Dr.  Lister's  eyes  had  followed  her  glance,  had 
seen  the  slightly  open  drawer,  the  key  in  the  lock. 
It  was  easy  to  guess  the  nature  of  her  employment, 
the  old  mournful,  brooding  inspection  of  Basil's 
property!  He  saw  also  a  scrap  of  paper  on  the  floor. 
Had  Basil  left  papers.^ 

"Lunch  is  over,"  said  he.  "Mary  Alcestis — " 
but  this  was  not  the  time  for  questioning.  He  went 
down  to  the  kitchen  and  brought  back  a  cup  of 
broth,  which  she  drank  slowly.  She  looked  no  more 
with  anxiety  at  the  bureau  and  he  saw  that  the 
drawer  was  closed  and  the  key  gone  from  the  lock. 
In  a  few  minutes  she  made  her  way  downstairs 
with  the  aid  of  his  arm  and  sank  upon  her  bed.  Her 
eyes  were  heavy. 

"How  lovely  it  is  here!  If  I  can  get  a  good  nap, 
I'll  feel  much  better.  Then,"  said  Mary  Alcestis  to 
her  soul,  "I  shall  finish  what  I  began." 

Before  Dr.  Lister  had  covered  her  she  was  asleep. 
He  went  out  and  closed  the  door  and  straightway 


244  BASIL  EVERMAN 

climbed  the  third  story  steps.  He  had  never  won- 
dered what  was  in  the  old  bureau,  he  naturally 
avoided  thinking  of  it  at  all.  Now  a  suspicion  had 
entered  his  mind,  rousing  his  curiosity.  There  was, 
he  was  convinced,  some  object  here  which  his  wife 
did  not  wish  him  to  see,  something  which  helped 
to  keep  grief  alive,  some  mystery  which  had  better 
be  at  once  probed.  He  did  not  believe  that  even 
yet  she  had  told  him  everything  about  her  brother. 

In  the  upper  drawer  lay  the  neat  packages  of 
Basil's  clothing,  he  felt  of  each  one  —  here  was  no 
mystery.  The  second  drawer  was  locked,  but  access 
to  it  was  easy  since  he  had  only  to  lift  out  the  upper 
drawer.  But  there  was  a  wooden  partition  between 
them.  Had  Mary  Alcestis  carried  the  key  away  with 
her.^  He  explored  among  the  paper  bundles.  Slipped 
into  one,  he  found  the  key. 

When  he  had  opened  the  locked  drawer,  he  stood 
for  a  long  time  motionless  before  it.  He  saw  the 
tablets,  the  sheaves  of  paper,  the  small  parcel  of  old 
letters,  the  little  penwiper,  the  pens  and  pencils. 
First  he  took  up  one  of  the  pens,  holding  it  in  his 
hand  and  staring  at  it.  After  a  while  he  took  up  a 
tablet  and  turned  back  the  cover.  He  read  the  first 
page,  bringing  it  close  to  his  somewhat  nearsighted 
eyes.  At  the  bottom,  he  whispered  what  he  read 
aloud  as  he  turned  the  page: 

"  Now  doth  he  forget 
Medea  and  his  sons  that  he  may  make 
His  bed  with  Creon's  daughter." 

He  read  on.  The  moments  passed.  The  dreaded 


BASIL'S  ROOM  HAS  A  NEW  VISITOR        245 

enemies  anticipated  by  Mary  Alcestis  drifted  in  at 
the  window  and  out  again,  and  at  last  the  campus 
clock  struck  five.  Supper  in  the  Lister  house  was 
early.  He  began  to  turn  the  pages  rapidly  and  five 
or  six  at  a  time.  They  were  covered  with  close 
writing;  here  and  there  were  bars  of  music  with 
Greek  words  between  them. 

He  took  up  another  of  the  thick  books.  Here, 
closely  copied,  was  '*  Bitter  Bread  " ;  here  were  other 
titles  —  "The  Dust  of  Battle"  with  an  explanatory 
sentence  beneath  it:  "The  fire  of  hell  shall  not  touch 
the  legs  of  him  who  is  covered  with  the  dust  of 
battle  in  the  road  of  God."  Here  was  "Obsession," 
here  "Victory,"  here  "Shame."  He  opened  the 
third  book,  saw  poetry  and  blinked  eyes  which  had 
begun  to  ache.  He  saw  loose  sheets  of  paper,  and 
the  string  which  had  held  them.  When  he  put  the 
string  round  them,  he  saw  that  some  had  been  taken 
out  of  the  package.  He  opened  the  other  drawers  — 
they  contained  only  more  camphor-scented,  care- 
fully wrapped  packages  of  clothing.  He  went  prowl- 
ing about,  he  lifted  the  pillows  from  the  bed,  he 
looked  into  the  pitcher  on  the  little  washstand. 
From  it  he  dipped  the  fragments  of  paper  and  laid 
them  on  the  bureau.  "  Passion  makes  its  own  laws  " 
—  he  read,  seeing  exactly  what  Mary  Alcestis  had 
thought  and  what  she  had  begim  to  do.  Oh,  miser- 
able Mary  Alcestis! 

His  coat  had  capacious  pockets.  These  he  filled 
and  went  to  his  study.  He  emptied  the  contents 
into  the  drawer  which  contained  his  own  meager 
original  work.  Then  he  went  back  to  the  third  story. 


246  B^SIL  EVERMAN 

fastened  the  window  and  the  drawer,  and,  locking 
the  door,  carried  the  key  and  the  remaining  manu- 
scripts away  with  him. 

At  nine  o'clock  that  evening  he  stepped  quietly 
from  the  side  door  of  his  study  across  to  Dr.  Scott's 
room  in  Recitation  Hall  where  he  saw  a  light.  Mrs. 
Lister  had  wakened,  had  taken  more  broth,  and 
again  slept  peacefully.  Her  intention  to  destroy 
Basil's  manuscript  brought  peace  to  her  mind.  She 
would  have  lost  that  peace  suddenly  and  com- 
pletely could  she  have  seen  her  husband  as  he  ap- 
peared before  Dr.  Scott,  his  spectacles  awry,  his 
face  flushed,  his  eyes  burning. 

Dr.  Lister  had  complete  confidence  in  Dr.  Scott's 
judgment  and  in  his  sense  of  honor.  It  was  necessary 
to  lay  a  certain  matter  before  one  whose  judgment 
was  sound  and  who  could  be  entirely  trusted,  and 
he  was  grateful  because  he  had  such  a  friend. 

"  Will  you  come  to  my  study  for  a  few  minutes.'^ " 
he  asked. 

Dr.  Scott  rose  at  once.  There  was  a  stealthy  ap- 
pearance in  their  advance.  Dr.  Scott  looked  back 
over  his  shoulder  toward  his  house.  If  his  wife  saw 
him  from  the  porch  she  would  be  just  as  likely  as 
not  to  call  to  him;  not  because  she  wanted  him  or 
needed  him,  but  because  she  was  curious.  When 
they  reached  the  Lister  house  safely.  Dr.  Lister 
explained  in  a  low  tone  that  Mrs.  Lister  was  not 
well  and  was  asleep.  He  opened  the  door  quietly 
and  tiptoed  into  his  study  and  then  closed  the  door 
into  the  hall. 

"Scott — •"  he  began  and  paused.  Now  that  he 


BASIL^S  ROOM  HAS  A  NEW  VISITOR        247 

was  about  to  impart  his  discovery,  it  seemed  melo- 
dramatic, impossible. 

*'Yes?"  said  Dr.  Scott.  He  had  sat  down  on  the 
side  of  the  desk  opposite  Dr.  Lister's  chair.  His 
eye  fell  upon  the  old  books  with  their  close  writ- 
ing and  he  wondered  whether  Lister  had  called  him 
to  consult  him  about  compositions  of  his  own. 
He  had  hoped  for  something  more  interesting,  but 
after  all,  what  could  excite  a  man  more  than  con- 
viction of  his  own  powers.^  Dr.  Scott  wondered  how 
he  would  get  out  of  an  uncomfortable  situation. 
Then,  at  Dr.  Lister's  words,  he  felt  the  blood  beat- 
ing through  his  wrists  and  in  the  vein  in  his 
neck. 

"I  have  found  a  quantity  of  manuscript  belong- 
ing to  Basil  Everman.  I  did  not  know  until  this 
afternoon  that  it  existed.  It  has  been  stored  away 
for  many  years  as  having  no  value  beyond  that  of 
a  souvenir  of  Basil  for  whom  Mrs.  Lister — "his 
voice  changed  a  little.  He  had  not  quite  forgiven 
Mary  Alcestis  —  "for  whom  Mrs.  Lister  had  a  very 
deep  affection.  I  wish  to  have  your  opinion  of  them 
before  I  speak  to  her  about  their  value,  of  which 
she  has,  I  am  sure,  no  conception." 

Dr.  Scott  reached  across  the  table.  His  motion 
was  swift,  eager,  unlike  him.  He  might  have  been 
said  to  pounce,  hawk-like,  upon  the  old  books  and 
papers  and  his  hand  shook  as  he  touched  first  of  all 
one  of  the  unbound  sheaves.  He  shielded  his  eyes 
from  the  glare  of  the  lamp,  his  figure  relaxed,  be- 
came motionless,  except  for  the  turning  of  pages. 

Dr.  Lister  sat  at  first  quietly,  one  knee  thrown 


248  BASIL  EVERMAN 

over  the  other,  his  foot  swinging.  After  a  while 
his  guest  looked  up  at  him,  in  his  face  intense 
annoyance  amounting  almost  to  disgust.  He  tried 
to  cover  this  revelation  of  his  inner  feeling,  but  was 
too  late. 

"Don't  mind  saying  just  what  you  think,"  said 
Dr.  Lister.  "Nothing  in  the  world  would  be  so  un- 
fortunate as  for  us  to  set  too  high  a  value  upon 
Basil's  writings." 

But  it  was  not  Basil's  writings  which  annoyed. 

"I  wish  you  would  stop  swinging  your  foot!" 

Dr.  Lister  looked  astonished,  then  he  laughed. 
He  went  upstairs  to  glance  in  upon  a  sleeping  Mary 
Alcestis.  All  compunctions  had  now  departed  from 
his  breast.  When  he  came  back  to  the  study.  Dr. 
Scott  asked  a  question. 

"How  old  was  he?" 

"About  twenty-five." 

"Incredible!" 

He  bent  again  over  Basil  Everman's  writing. 
Dr.  Lister  opened  a  notebook  and  read  for  a  few 
minutes  and  laid  it  down,  surfeited  with  Basil 
Everman.  He  crossed  the  hall  and  walked  up  and 
down  the  long  parlor.  When  he  went  back  within 
reach  of  Dr.  Scott's  whisper,  he  heard,  "It  seems 
to  me  you've  come  perilously  near  committing  a 
sort  of  murder.  What  was  his  family  about?" 

"They  thought  him  a  little  wild.  That  is  between 
you  and  me,  Scott." 

"Wild!"  repeated  Dr.  Scott,  and  still  again, 
"Wild!" 

Again  Dr.   Lister  started   upon   a  promenade 


BASIL'S  ROOM  HAS  A  NEW  VISITOR        249 

through  the  parlor  where  Basil  had  walked,  past 
the  old  piano,  under  the  old  portraits. 

When  he  came  back  to  the  study.  Dr.  Scott  had 
ceased  reading. 

"I  forgot  my  glasses,"  said  he.  "I've  read  my- 
self almost  blind.  And  anyway,  I  can't  read  any 
more.  Two  hours  of  this  is  like  two  hours  of  Euripi- 
des; it  takes  life  out  of  you.  Was  he  really  here,  in 
this  house,  in  Walton ville?"  Dr.  Scott  drew  the 
word  out  to  a  dreary  length. 

**Do  you  think  anything  can  be  made  of  them.^^" 

"My  dear  Lister!  You  know  and  I  know  that 
they  can  be  published  as  they  stand.  There  are 
lines  which  might  be  annotated,  but  that  is  all. 
They  are  imique,  priceless.  They  help  to  redeem 
the  nation  from  charges  such  as  Utterly's.  He  was 
right  about  them  in  the  wildest  of  his  extravagance." 

Dr.  Lister  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets. 

"  It  would  help  Mrs.  Lister  to  see  that  they  should 
be  published  if  — " 

"She  will  surely  publish  them  with  pride  and 
joy!" 

"1  didn't  mean  that  exactly  as  it  sounded.  I 
mean,  she  would,  I  am  sure,  be  glad  if  you  would 
arrange  to  select,  to  edit  —  that  is  if  —  when  they 
are  published." 

Dr.  Scott  put  his  hand  again  between  his  eyes 
and  the  light.  If  he  could  have  chosen  a  task  from 
all  the  tasks  in  the  world,  barring  the  greater  work 
of  the  creative  writer,  it  would  have  been  such  a 
task  as  this.  He  rose  and  slipped  his  hand  into  the 
front  of  his  coat.  In  this  position  he  had  received 


250  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Mrs.  Scott's  "Yes."  This  moment  was  to  be 
classed  with  that;  it  was  later  to  be  placed  above 
it  in  quality  and  in  importance. 

*'l  should  count  myself  the  most  fortunate  of 
men,"  said  he.  "I  envy  Mrs.  Lister  her  relationship 
to  Basil  Everman.  I  wish — "  The  hall  clock  had 
begun  to  strike  and  he  paused  to  count  the  strokes. 
"It  is  time  for  me  to  go.  When  can  this  work  begin? 
There  are  only  six  more  weeks  of  vacation." 

His  eagerness  made  Dr.  Lister  uneasy. 

"When  I  have  talked  it  over  with  Mrs.  Lister  I 
will  let  you  know  at  once,"  said  he. 

Then,  having  closed  the  door  behind  his  friend, 
he  stood  thinking  deeply. 


CHAPTER  XXI 

A  QUESTION  PUT  TO  RICHARD 

Mary  Alcestis  did  not  dream,  as  she  lay  comfort- 
ably in  her  bed  the  next  morning  breathing  the 
cooler  air  and  watching  the  shadows  on  the  wall, 
that  there  moved  about  her  house  a  plotter  against 
her  peace  far  more  dangerous  than  an  enemy  from 
without.  She  thought  that  her  husband  looked  at 
her  with  imusual  gravity  and  she  was  touched  by 
his  solicitude,  not  suspecting  that  he  searched  her 
face  for  signs  of  recovery  in  order  that  he  might 
deal  her  a  cruel  blow. 

At  the  end  of  the  second  day  she  rose  and  sat 
by  her  window  looking  out  over  the  pleasant  green- 
sward and  recalling  the  hours  when  she  had  sat  there 
with  tiny  Richard  beside  her.  She  felt  happier;  it 
did  not  seem  rational  that  Mrs.  Bent  would  speak 
now  after  having  been  silent  for  so  many  years, 
especially  if  poor  Basil  were  allowed  to  sink  once 
more  into  oblivion.  When  his  manuscripts  were 
really  destroyed,  she  believed  that  the  course  of 
life  would  be  again  smooth. 

Dr.  Lister,  coming  in,  took  her  hand  and  found  it 
cool;  he  looked  into  her  eyes  and  saw  that  they 
were  bright  and  clear,  and  thereupon  began  what 
he  had  to  say. 

"My  dear,  there  is  a  matter  which  we  shall  have 
to  discuss."  He  spoke  cheerfully,  having  decided 
that  a  cheerful  air  would  help  Mary  Alcestis. 


252  BASIL  EVERMAN 

«^ 

"Yes,"  said  she,  thinking  of  Richard's  music. 
She  was  prepared  to  grant  Richard  anything. 

"It  concerns  Basil." 

She  gave  a  Httle  cry. 

"Oh,  papa,  can  you  not  let  Basil  rest!  If  any  one 
should  pursue  and  hound  me  after  I  was  dead  as 
people  pursue  and  hound  Basil,  I  should  not  rest  in 
my  grave!  Let  us  not  talk  about  him!  I  was  just 
thinking  how  Richard  used  to  lie  there  in  his  crib 
and  how  sweet  he  was.  He  was  always  a  lovely  boy. 
I  am  sorry  that  I  opposed  him  and  I  am  willing  to 
give  up  entirely.  I  told  you  that!" 

"We  cannot  put  Basil  aside,"  said  Dr.  Lister. 

"I  suppose  that  something  dreadful  happened 
while  I  was  sick.  I  ought  not  to  have  gone  to 
bed.  Perhaps  she  has  been  here  or  that  young  girl. 
Perhaps  that  young  girl  has  known  all  along. 
Oh,  I  hope  Richard  has  made  her  no  promises.  I 
hope—" 

"You  are  working  yourself  into  a  dangerous 
condition  of  excitement.  Will  you  hear  what  I  have 
to  say  quietly,  or  shall  I  go  away  and  finish  another 
time.?" 

"You  had  better  say  it  now." 

"This  has  to  do  with  Basil  alone.  When  you  lay 
on  the  bed  in  his  room,  I  saw  your  eyes  turn  toward 
the  bureau.  I  connected  your  uneasiness  with  some- 
thing in  the  open  drawer.  When  I  came  back  from 
the  kitchen  with  your  broth,  the  drawer  was  closed, 
the  key  gone;  then  I  was  sure.  I  do  not  like  mys- 
teries, so  I  went  upstairs  and  looked  again." 

"The  drawer  was  locked!," 


A  QUESTION  PUT  TO  RICHARD  253 

"Yes,  my  dear,  but  I  found  the  key." 

Mrs.  Lister's  cheeks  paled,  then  crimsoned.  She 
looked  now  at  her  husband,  now  out  the  window, 
saying  nothing.  She  expected  to  feel  a  terrible  indig- 
nation, but  she  waited  in  vain.  Instead  she  felt  a 
deep  relief.  If  she  had  only  obeyed  her  husband  long 
ago  and  had  destroyed  all  Basil's  possessions,  she 
would  have  been  far  happier.  Now  Dr.  Lister  might 
destroy  them,  all  his  clothes,  his  childish  toys, 
his  youthful  writings,  and  she  need  think  of  them 
no  more.  At  last  her  grief  was  stale,  she  wished  to 
think  no  more  of  Basil. 

"I  found  in  the  bureau  a  great  many  manu- 
scripts of  Basil's." 

"Tear  them  up,"  said  Mary  Alcestis.  "You  know 
you  advised  me  long  ago  to  destroy  everything.  I 
had  just  begun  when  I  fainted." 

"I  never  advised  you  to  tear  up  any  writings." 

"You  said  Basil's  'things.'" 

"I  meant  Basil's  clothing,  you  know  that.  Did 
you  not  suspect,  after  Mr.  Utterly  was  here,  that 
these  papers  might  be  valuable  .f^" 

Mary  Alcestis  made  no  answer. 

"These  writings  of  Basil's  can  never  be  de- 
stroyed. It  would  be  like  murder." 

"But  who  will  ever  read  them.^"  she  wailed.  "I 
cannot  bear  to.  Basil  had  such  strange  ideas.  And 
Richard  will  not  care  for  them,  poor  Richard.  He 
thinks  Basil  ruined  his  life.  It  is  dreadful  how  things 
can  go  on  and  on!" 

"Other  persons  will  care  for  them." 

"Other  persons!  What  other  persons?" 


254  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"All  persons  who  care  for  good  literature,"  an- 
swered Dr.  Lister  steadily. 

Mrs.  Lister  turned  head  and  shoulder  so  that  she 
could  look  into  his  eyes. 

"  You  would  not  think  of  having  them  published  I " 

"Without  any  question  I  should  have  them  pub- 
lished!" 

"He  was  only  a  boy."  She  began  in  a  trembling 
voice  her  first  skirmish.  "They  are  surely  not  worth 
publication.  We  might  prize  them,  but  others 
would  n't.  Do  you  not  see  that,  papa.^" 

"He  was  more  than  a  boy  and  he  was  an  extra- 
ordinarily fine  writer  of  English.  Why,  mother,  his 
very  ghost  would  cry  out  upon  us !  Do  you  suppose 
he  spent  his  days  and  nights,  writing  and  polishing 
in  order  that  his  compositions  might  lie  in  an  old 
bureau  in  an  attic.^^  We  should  be  traitors  to  him ! " 

"I  would  rather  be  a  traitor  to  him  in  that  way 
than  be  responsible  for  publishing  his  —  his  sins ! " 
cried  Mrs.  Lister  wildly.  "If  his  writings  are  really 
good,  people  would  come  flocking  about  us  like 
wolves.  That  Mr.  Utterly  reminded  me  of  a  wolf. 
They  would  ferret  things  out,  they  would  — " 

"From  whom  would  they  ferret  anything  out?" 

"They  might  make  her  believe  it  was  her  duty  to 
tell.  If  Mr.  Utterly  talked  to  her  he  might  persuade 
her.  He  would  tell  her  it  was  an  honor.  Oh,  I  could 
not  endure  it!" 

"Mother,  that  is  sheer  nonsense!" 

Mrs.  Lister  turned  a  still  more  direct  gaze  into 
her  husband's  eyes. 

"It  is  not  your  affair.  You  have  nothing  to  do 


A  QUESTION  PUT  TO  RICHARD  255 

with  it.  You  had  no  right  to  unlock  Basil's  bureau. 
You — "  she  bowed  her  head  on  the  arm  of  her 
chair.  "Oh,  Thomas,  forgive  me!  I  don't  know  what 
I  'm  saying.  I  think  of  Richard.  I  don't  care  about 
Basil.  I  have  cherished  his  memory  and  I  have  had 
only  misery  and  shame.  I  think  about  Richard  and 
his  children  and  the  good  name  of  my  dear  father. 
Don't  let  us  bring  this  matter  to  light!  I  beseech 
of  you,  dear  Thomas!" 

Dr.  Lister  took  the  hand  which  sought  his.  He 
almost  yielded  to  this  desperate  pleading.  Did  any- 
thing in  the  world  really  matter  as  much  as  this? 
Would  Basil's  fame  survive  more  than  a  few  gener- 
ations.^ Would  a  publisher  even  consider  the  bring- 
ing out  of  the  work  of  a  man  so  long  gone.^  Was  it 
not  better  that  he  should  remain  dead  than  that 
his  sister's  heart  should  ache? 

Then  Dr.  Lister  saw  in  Basil's  handwriting  cer- 
tain clear  sentences,  certain  lines  of  verse.  His  face 
crimsoned. 

"I  have  shown  Basil's  compositions  in  confidence 
to  Scott,"  said  he,  firmly. 

Mary  Alcestis  began  to  cry. 

"He  thinks  they  are  admirable,  mother."  Dr. 
Lister  drew  an  unwilling  head  to  his  shoulder.  "My 
dear,  let  me  take  this  burden  from  you.  I  have  taken 
other  burdens,  and  I  should  have  borne  this  long 
ago." 

"He  could  see  nothing  derogatory  to  Basil  in 
them?"  sobbed  Mary  Alcestis. 

"Nothing.  He  would  be  outraged  by  such  a  sug- 
gestion. He  would  arrange  them,  edit  them,  and 


256  BASIL  EVERMAN 

write  a  life  of  Basil  from  the  information  you  gave 
him  and  in  a  certain  sense  under  your  direction." 

"In  a  certain  sense?"  repeated  Mary  Alcestis, 
warily. 

"He  would  do  no  prying.  He  would  use  the 
material  you  gave  him  and  ask  no  questions.  He 
would  consult  no  one  but  you  and  perhaps  Thoma- 
sina  whose  recollection  of  Basil  should  have  value." 

"I  told  her,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Lister.  "I  think  I  had  a 
sort  of  hysteria.  I  did  n't  know  what  I  was  saying." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"She  said  I  was  a  fool." 

Dr.  Lister  could  not  restrain  a  smile. 

"That  was  a  hard  word  from  Thomasina.  I 
should  think  it  would  have  done  you  good." 

"It  did  n't,"  said  Mrs.  Lister. 

"If  Scott  could  do  this  work,  he  would -do  it 
admirably  and  I  believe  it  would  be  the  greatest 
satisfaction  of  his  life.  I  think  he  might  even  forget 
Mrs.  Scott  for  a  while." 

"It  has  come  upon  me  too  suddenly.  Richard 
should  be  consulted.  It  is  Richard  whom  it  most 


concerns." 


I  shall  write  to  Richard." 

"I  must  see  what  you  write!" 

"Surely." 

Dr.  Lister  helped  Mary  Alcestis  to  bed,  then  he 
stated  his  views  to  Richard  and  also  her  views  and 
Dr.  Scott's  views.  In  the  morning  he  read  her  the 
letter. 

"I  think  you  are  a  little  hard  on  Basil,"  said 
she  and  wept. 


A  QUESTION  PUT  TO  RICHARD  257 

In  four  days  Dr.  Lister  had  an  answer.  The 
envelope  contained  two  sheets. 

"Dear  Mother,"  read  one,  "I  am  willing  for  you 
and  father  to  do  as  you  think  best  about  Basil 
Everman's  writings."  On  the  other  sheet  Richard 
had  written,  **Dear  Father,  I  do  not  give  a  hang 
for  Basil  Everman.  Do  as  you  please." 

Dr.  Lister  jumped.  Richard !  Smiling  broadly,  he 
started  upstairs  to  show  both  letters;  then  he  re- 
turned from  the  hall  and  dropped  Richard's  note 
to  him  in  fine  pieces  into  the  waste-paper  basket. 

"I  must  be  losing  my  mind!"  said  he. 


CHAPTER  XXII 

A  CONFIDENCE  BETRAYED 

When  she  returned  from  Mrs.  Lister's  bedside, 
Thomasina  sat  for  a  long  time  looking  into  her 
garden.  The  light  shimmered  above  the  flower- 
beds, the  plants  were  drooping.  The  air  even  in  her 
cool  room  was  heavy  and  hard  to  breathe. 

Summoned  to  lunch,  she  ate  only  enough  to  pre- 
vent alarmed  inquiries  from  'Melia,  then  she  went 
upstairs.  She  took  off  her  dress  and  put  on  a  cool 
and  flowing  gown  and  lay  down  upon  her  couch 
and  closed  her  eyes.  After  a  while  she  rose  and 
opened  a  drawer  in  her  bureau  and  took  out  a  little 
inlaid  box,  and  from  it  lifted  a  package  of  letters. 
She  did  not  read  them  or  even  open  the  package, 
but  looked  at  them  and  laid  them  back.  Once  more 
she  lay  down  upon  her  couch  and  hot  tears  rolled 
from  under  her  eyelids  and  out  upon  her  cheeks. 
After  a  long  time  she  fell  asleep. 

In  the  morning  she  went  again  to  Dr.  Green's 
office.  She  rang  the  bell  and  entered  and  sat  down 
to  wait  Virginia's  pleasure,  almost  certain  that  Dr. 
Green  had  not  come  back.  When  Virginia  appeared, 
lithe  and  shapely  and  deliberate  of  motion,  Thoma- 
sina had  reached  a  point  which  she  seldom  allowed 
herself  even  to  approach.  Virginia  looked  in  con- 
sternation at  her  flushed  face. 

"You  sure  you  not  sick.  Miss  Thomas'?" 


A  CONFIDENCE  BETRAYED  259 

"No,  Virginia.  Has  the  doctor  come?" 

"No,  Miss  Thomas'." 

"Virginia"  —  Thomasina  could  be  no  longer  re- 
strained —  "why  don't  you  keep  the  doctor's  office 
in  better  order .'^  Look  at  that  corner.  And  at  that!" 

Virginia  leaned  against  the  door. 

"Don't  believe  doctor  he  could  find  things  if  it 
was  too  clean,  Miss  Thomas'.  Could  I  get  you  some- 
thing —  glass  of  water  or  something?  You  look  all 
wore  out." 

Thomasina  smiled  faintly.  The  race  disarmed 
anger. 

"No,  I  thank  you." 

She  started  to  Dr.  Green's  ofl5ce  on  a  third  morn- 
ing. As  she  was  about  to  leave  her  door  she  saw  the 
doctor  entering  the  gate. 

"I  got  back  on  the  nine  o'clock  train,"  he  ex- 
plained. "This  morning  Virginia  came  early  — 
early,  if  you  please  —  to  tell  me  that  you  have 
been  twice  to  my  office.  She  suspects  all  sorts  of 
afflictions.  Surely  you  are  not  ill!" 

Thomasina  led  the  way  into  her  parlor  and  sat 
down  upon  her  throne-like  chaii*.  Her  pale  face 
wore  both  a  judicial  and  an  embarrassed  air. 

"You  should  have  a  wife.  Dr.  Green.  Virginia 
should  be  taken  in  hand,  dealt  with,  commanded, 
bullied." 

"I  agree  with  you.  You  are  thinking  of  my  office. 
I  suppose  when  I'm  away,  Virginia 's  'on  the  town' 
as  she  says." 

"But  a  wife  could  make  a  fine  girl  of  Virginia." 
»   Dr.  Green  looked  at  Thomasina  with  faint  as- 


260  BASIL  EVERMAN 

tonishment.  It  was  not  like  her  to  assume  so  inti- 
mate and  bantering  an  air. 

"I  hope  there  is  nothing  serious  the  matter. 
What  are  your  symptoms?  Do  you  not  think  it  is 
the  intense  heat  that  has  affected  you?" 

"The  heat  never  troubles  me.  It  is  a  patient  of 
yours  who  worries  me.  I  mean  Mrs.  Lister." 

"Mrs.  Lister!  there's  no  reason  to  worry  about 
her.  There  was  nothing  seriously  wrong  with  her 
when  I  went  away  ahd  I  found  no  message  when  I 
got  back." 

"They  wouldn't  send  a  message  about  this. 
Her  trouble  is  not  to  be  cured  by  medicine,  it  is  of 
the  mind." 

Dr.  Green  pursed  his  lips  and  frowned.  He  was 
surprised  at  Thomasina  and  was  prepared  to  give 
her  his  most  earnest  attention.  She  would  not  speak 
to  him  in  this  fashion  without  good  reason.  He 
rested  his  arms  on  the  arms  of  his  chair  and  leaned 
forward,  his  hands  clasped  lightly.  Whatever  his 
origin,  he  was  a  person  of  distinguished  presence, 
and,  except  in  the  matter  of  order  in  his  office,  of 
fastidious  taste. 

"Well,  Miss  Thomasina,"  said  he  in  his  clear, 
deliberate,  well-modulated  voice. 

When  Thomasina  began  to  speak  in  a  high  tone, 
as  though  she  were  forcing  herself  a  little,  he 
frowned  again;  as  she  went  on  a  dull  color  stole  into 
his  cheek  and  his  motionless  figure  seemed  to 
stiffen.  He  might  well  blush  to  hear  so  extraordinary 
a  betrayal  of  confidence. 

"Dr.    Green,    Basil    Everman,    Mrs.    Lister's 


A  CONFIDENCE  BETRAYED  261 

brother,  about  whom  we  have  recently  heard  so 
much  and  of  whom  you  and  I  spoke  upon  one  occa- 
sion, was  a^good  man,  but  he  was  a  genius,  and  it 
is  the  common  fate  of  geniuses  to  be  misunderstood. 
They  are  often  denied  by  their  friends  the  pos- 
session of  common  and  sometimes  of  moral  sense. 
Basil  wore  flowing  neckties  at  a  period  when  neck- 
ties were  small;  he  used  well-selected  words  when 
the  rest  of  mankind  were  indifferent  to  their  speech; 
he  drew  sometimes  a  parallel  from  the  classics  — 
consequently  Waltonville  thought  him  queer.  You 
know  Walton ville's  attitude  of  mind.^" 

"Perfectly." 

"But  he  did  worse,  he  did  not  always  come  to 
meals  on  time,  or  go,  candle  in  hand,  in  solemn 
procession  to  bed  when  the  rest  of  the  family  went, 
old  Dr.  Everman  in  his  white  stock,  Mary  Alcestis 
looking  tearfully  back  over  her  shoulder,  hoping  in 
terror  that  Basil  might  at  that  moment  be  heard  on 
the  porch.  They  attributed  to  him  strange  motives 
and  stranger  acts.  They  watched  him,  were  embar- 
rassed for  him,  apologized  for  him.  They  thought 
of  him,  in  moments  of  unusual  charity,  as  not  quite 
sound.  They  thought  in  other  moments  a  good  deal 
worse  of  him.  Basing  their  opinion  on  stupid  coin- 
cidences, they  blamed  upon  him  actual  crimes. 
They  did  not  wish  to  believe  these  things  of  Basil. 
Over  what  she  really  believes  is  true,  Mrs.  Lister 
has  been  for  many  years  breaking  her  heart.  It  is 
that  which  ails  her,  and  not  the  heat." 

"How  foolish!"  said  Dr.  Green,  leaning  back  in 
his  chair.  "Let  the  past  bury  its  dead.  Middle  life. 


262  BASIL  EVERMAN 

you  see,  with  no  mental  exercise.  How  very  fool- 
ish!" 

"But  the  dead  aren't  buried,  they  are  in  our 
midst,  and  as  long  as  Eleanor  Bent  is  in  sight, 
Mrs.  Lister  must  worry  her  heart  out." 

"Eleanor  Bent!"  repeated  Dr.  Green,  bending 
forward  once  more.  "What  has  she  to  do  with  it?" 

Thomasina  looked  down  at  the  floor.  She  hesi- 
tated; perhaps  remembering  at  this  moment  that 
she  had  never  before  betrayed  the  confidence  of  a 
friend.  Perhaps  it  was  because  she  had  a  sickening 
conviction  that  her  whole  course  in  this  matter  was 
that  of  a  fool. 

"The  Listers  have  imagined  —  at  least  Mrs. 
Lister  has  from  these  stupid  coincidences  —  has 
imagined  it  for  years,  weeping  over  it  in  secret  — • 
that  Eleanor  Bent  is  her  brother  Basil's  daughter." 

"Extraordinary!"  said  Dr.  Green  slowly.  "Does 
any  one  else  have  this  notion.^"" 

"I  think  not.  Basil  was  as  much  forgotten  as 
though  he  had  never  been  born." 

"What  are  these  coincidences .f^" 

"Mrs.  Lister  saw  the  two  together,  followed 
them,  indeed,  and  says  that  Margie  Ginter  was 
clinging  to  Basil's  arm  and  pleading  with  him  and 
crying.  In  the  second  place,  he  went  away  from 
Waltonville  about  the  time  that  the  Ginters  went. 
In  the  third,  Eleanor  has  in  Mrs.  Lister's  eyes 
a  strong  resemblance  to  him.  Then  there  is  this 
writing." 

"Writing?"  queried  Dr.  Green. 

*^Yes,  Eleanor's  writing.  What  is  more  likely 


A  CONFIDENCE  BETRAYED  263 

than  that  she  should  have  inherited  talent  from 
Basil  Everman?" 

"The  fact  that  her  work  bears  not  the  remot- 
est resemblance  to  his  has  nothing  to  do  with  the 
question,  I  presume?" 

"Writing  is  writing,"  answered  Thomasina  in  her 
lightest  tone.  She  waited  for  a  word  from  Dr.  Green, 
but  none  came.  "Margie  Ginter  was  a  good  girl, 
I  have  always  believed,"  she  went  on.  "She  was  in 
a  dreadful  position  here.  If  Basil  had  anything  to 
do  with  her,  it  was  to  help  her  in  some  fashion.  He 
was — "  Thomasina  did  not  go  on  with  her  sen- 
tence; it  seemed  diflBcult  for  her  to  say  what  he 
was.  "As  for  the  resemblance,  Eleanor  has  gTay 
eyes  and  so  had  he,  and  a  light  step  and  so  had  he, 
but  others  have  bright  eyes  and  a  light  step." 

Dr.  Green  still  said  nothing.  He  seemed  to  give 
each  sentence  of  Thomasina's  careful  consideration. 

"It  is  a  pity  for  Mary  Alcestis  to  have  worried 
for  so  many  years."  Her  voice  seemed  to  lose  its 
strength. 

"One  can't  do  much  for  a  woman  as  foolish  as 
that,"  said  Dr.  Green.  "I  should  say  she  deserves 
to  have  the  punishment  exactly  suited  to  her  case." 

"It  is  a  pity,  too,  for  little  Mrs.  Bent,"  went  on 
Thomasina. 

"What  no  one  knows  will  not  hurt  Mrs.  Bent." 

"No  one  knows  now,"  answered  Thomasina. 
"But  Mary  Alcestis  told  me.  She  is  in  a  hysterical 
condition  and  there  is  no  telling  to  whom  she  may 
break  out.  It  would  be  most  unfortunate  to  have 
this  pried  out  of  her  by  —  well,  say  by  Mrs.  Scott." 


264  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Again  Dr.  Green  was  silent. 

"It's  a  pity,  too,  for  Eleanor,"  said  Thomasina. 

"I  think  it  very  unlikely  that  Mrs.  Lister  will 
let  such  a  mad  tale  become  public  —  you  say  it  is 
a  mad  tale." 

"It  is  a  pity  for  Richard,  too." 

"Richard  least  of  all,"  answered  Dr.  Green.  "I 
can 't  see  how  he  would  be  aflFected." 

"Then  you  have  not  been  watching  the  young 
people." 

"I  don't  understand  you.'* 

"I  mean  that  Richard  is  evidently  in  love  with 
Eleanor  and  that  his  mother  has  found  it  out  — ■ 
therefore  his  absence  and  her  tears." 

"Is  Eleanor  in  tears?"  Dr.  Green's  tone  sharp- 
ened. 

"Yes,  a  part  of  the  time  Eleanor  is  in  tears." 

"She  had  better  cry  than  think  of  marrying," 
declared  Dr.  Green.  "Such  a  match  would  be  the 
end  of  her  work.  It  would  be  the  greatest  mistake, 
it  would  be  a  calamity.  She  has  every  prospect  of 
success.  I  do  not  believe  that  she  can  be  seriously 
impressed  with  that  silky  mother's  boy.  If  she  is, 
let  her  get  over  it!" 

"You  have  always  taken  a  great  interest  in  her." 

"Yes,"  answered  Dr.  Green.  "I  have.  She  has 
possibilities." 

"I  saw  by  accident  your  check  for  her  piano,'* 
said  Thomasina.  "It  lay  on  the  desk  in  the  com- 
pany's office." 

"Did  you?"  asked  Dr.  Green  coolly.  His  tone 
could  have  been  no  more  severe  if  Thomasina  had 


A  CONFIDENCE  BETRAYED  265 

opened  and  read  one  of  his  letters.  "What  did  you 
conclude  from  that?" 

Thomasina  did  not  answer  his  question. 

"It  is  worst  of  all  for  Basil  Everman,"  said  she. 
"When  one  thinks  of  him,  it  becomes  monstrous* 
Does  n't  it  seem  so  to  you,  Dr.  Green?" 

Green  rose  to  his  feet.  He  met  Thomasina's  eyes 
coolly. 

"Miss  Thomasina  — " 

Thomasina  lifted  her  hand. 

"What  I  concluded  was  simply  that  you  knew 
more  about  Mrs.  Bent  and  her  daughter  than  the 
rest  of  us,"  said  she.  "I  am  sure  that  Eleanor  has 
an  honorable  paternity  and  Mrs.  Bent  a  history 
that  could  be  safely  revealed.  But  one  could  not  go 
to  her  and  ask  her ! " 

"From  your  own  account  the  danger  of  this  myth 
becoming  public  is  so  small  as  to  be  almost  negligi- 
ble. Since  Mrs.  Bent  and  her  daughter  are  not  likely 
to  stay  in  Waltonville,  it  is  wholly  negligible.  As  for 
my  connection  with  the  Bents  —  it  is  this  —  I  be- 
lieve that  Eleanor  has  a  mind  of  great  promise.  I 
have  tried  to  influence  her  and  I  shall  continue  to  try." 

"I  am  sorry  that  I  told  you,"  said  Thomasina 
faintly. 

"There  is  no  reason  that  you  should  be,"  said 
Dr.  Green.  "If  Mrs.  Lister  needs  any  further  atten- 
tion I  shall  have  her  case  already  diagnosed." 

When  he  had  gone,  Thomasina  sat  down  in  her 
high-backed  chair.  Her  face  was  deathly  pale,  her 
hands  lay  limply  in  her  lap,  her  eyes  were  closed. 
Suddenly  she  sat  upright. 


^m  BASIL  EVER]\IAN 

"I  believe  he  has  hed  to  me,"  said  she.  Her  hands 
gripped  the  arms  of  her  chair,  her  eyes  seemed  to  be 
fixed  intently  upon  objects  outside  her  parlor.  She 
saw  Dr.  Green  and  heard  him  speak;  she  saw  also 
another  figure  and  heard  also  another  voice. 

"I  would  like  for  you  to  choose  a  pie-anna"  — 
why  was  it  that  the  one  suggested  the  other? 
Thomasina  remembered  Dr.  Green  distinctly  in  his 
queer,  opinionated,  misogynistic  youth.  Had  he 
ever  even  spoken  to  Margie  Ginter  before  she  had 
returned  to  Walton ville.^  She  thought  of  Eleanor, 
followed  the  lines  of  her  body,  the  contour  of  her 
face.  There  was  a  line  from  brow  to  chin,  there  was 
a  shapely  nose,  there  was  —  but  she  could  think  no 
more. 

She  rose  and  walked  up  and  down  the  room, 
her  brain  weary  with  speculation.  After  a  long  time 
she  said  aloud,  "Oh,  Basil T' 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

A  WALTONVILLE  DELILAH 

Pacing  his  quiet  study,  sitting  before  his  desk, 
eating  his  absent-minded  meals,  lying  sleepless  in 
his  bed.  Dr.  Scott  waited  impatiently.  In  another 
month  school  would  begin,  but  school  work  had  be- 
come routine  which  would  take  only  his  time  and 
would  not  interrupt  his  mental  processes.  He  had 
read  the  last  of  Basil  Everman's  compositions  and 
had  made  complete  and  elaborate  plans  for  their 
presentation  to  the  world,  even  though  Dr.  Lister 
had  warned  him  that  Mrs.  Lister's  consent  must 
first  be  gained.  Dr.  Scott  did  not  believe  for  an 
instant  that  she  would  refuse.  She  would  rejoice 
as  any  sensible  person  would  in  this  late  fame  for 
her  brother. 

Already  he  saw  before  him  "Miscellaneous  Stud- 
ies, Basil  Everman,"  "The  Poems  of  Basil  Ever- 
man,"  "Bitter  Bread  and  other  Stories,  Basil 
Everman,"  "Translations  from  the  Greek,  Basil 
Everman."  The  books  would  need  no  wide  adver- 
tising to  float  them;  they  would  come  gradually 
and  certainly  into  favor.  They  should  be  smoothly 
bound  in  dark  blue,  excellently  printed  on  thick, 
light,  creamy  paper  in  large  type,  and  on  the  title- 
page  of  each  should  stand  "The  Works  of  Basil 
Everman,  vol. — ,  Henry  Harrington  Scott,  Edi- 
tor." He  gave  a  half -day  to  deciding  whether  "Pro- 


268  B^IL  EVERMAN 

fessor  of  English  Literature  in  Walton  College" 
should  be  added. 

He  saw  before  him  his  own  sentences,  few  in 
number,  rich  in  meaning.  He  wrote  them  down, 
some  on  slips  of  paper  which  he  carried  with  him 
on  long  walks  into  the  country  or  held  in  his  hand 
in  the  twilight  as  he  sat  in  his  study.  "Everman's 
style,"  he  wrote,  "  combines  the  freshness  and  light- 
ness of  youth  with  the  more  solid  qualities  which 
belong  to  maturity.  He  ornamented  dexterously  the 
subjects  whose  impressiveness  was  enhanced  by  an 
embroidery  of  words  and  with  equal  taste  pruned 
rigorously  those  passages  whose  truth  was  best  set 
forth  undecked."  Here  and  there  he  underlined  a 
word  as  an  indication  that  it  was  to  be  further 
considered  and  its  suitability  scrutinized. 

He  placed  Basil  in  the  Everman  house,  saw  him 
walking  the  streets  and  wrote  a  sentence  which 
pleased  him  mightily.  The  sentence  was  to  please 
poor  Mary  Alcestis:  "The  history  of  Basil  Everman 
offers  a  positive  answer  to  that  problem  about  which 
there  is  and  will  always  be  frequent  contention  — 
whether  the  human  soul  finds  within  itseK  the  ma- 
terial for  such  presentations."  Basil  Everman  had 
found  tragedy,  gloom,  passion  in  his  own  heart  and 
in  the  literature  which  he  read  and  not  in  his  own 
experience. 

He  determined  to  quote  passages  which  he  had 
loved  and  cherished  —  cherished,  it  might  well 
seem  for  this  end:  Basil  Everman  "sensed  that  old 
Greek  question,  yet  unanswered.  The  imconquer- 
able  specter  still  flitting  among  the  forest  trees  at 


A  WALTONVILLE  DELILAH  269 

twilight;  rising  ribbed  out  of  the  sea  sand;  white,  a 
strange  Aphrodite  —  out  of  the  sea  foam;  stretch- 
ing its  gray,  cloven  wings  among  the  clouds;  turning 
the  light  of  their  sunsets  into  blood." 

Another  sentence  he  meant  to  use  which  was  still 
new  and  whose  applicability  he  saw  as  yet  vaguely: 

"She  is  older  than  the  rocks  among  which  she 
sits;  like  the  vampire  she  has  been  dead  many 
times,  and  learned  the  secrets  of  the  grave;  and  has 
been  a  diver  in  deep  seas,  and  keeps  their  fallen 
day  about  her;  and  trafficked  for  strange  webs  with 
Eastern  merchants;  and,  as  Leda,  was  the  mother 
of  Helen  of  Troy,  and,  as  Saint  Aime,  the  mother  of 
Mary;  and  all  this  has  been  to  her  but  as  the  sound 
of  lyres  and  flutes,  and  hves  only  in  the  delicacy 
with  which  it  has  moulded  the  changing  linea- 
ments, and  tinged  the  eyelids  and  the  hands." 

He  considered  the  sources  for  the  brief  biography. 
There  was  Mary  Alcestis,  first  and  most  important. 
There  were,  he  hoped,  letters.  And  there  was 
Thomasina. 

His  delight  in  his  work  set  the  machinery  of  his 
mind  into  swift  revolution.  He  recalled  with  sat- 
isfaction his  short  contributions  to  contemporary 
literature  and  got  down  the  scrapbooks  in  which  he 
had  preserved  them.  Here  was  an  admirable  para- 
graph —  there  was  one  which  should  be  recast.  He 
read  again  the  carefully  preserved  letters  which 
he  had  received  in  agreement  and  commendation. 
When  the  works  of  Basil  Everman  appeared,  Vree- 
land  and  Lewis  and  Wilson  would  in  all  probability 
write  to  him  again.  He  was  still  not  middle-aged; 


270  BASIL  EVERMAN 

there  might  be  before  him  deeper  literary  satisfac- 
tions than  the  editing  of  another  man's  work,  ex- 
traordinary as  that  work  was.  He  might  see  some 
happy  day  his  own  productions  beautifully  printed, 
beautifully  bound,  his  own  name  in  gold  on  dark- 
blue  cloth  —  Henry  Harrington  Scott. 

In  the  glow  which  pervaded  his  spirit,  old  feel- 
ings revived,  feelings  which  had  no  connection  with 
literary  matters.  He  began  to  remember  once  more 
not  only  why  he  had  married,  but  why  he  had 
married  Mrs.  Scott.  He  saw  her  blue  eyes,  un- 
sharpened  and  unfaded;  he  saw  her  eager  face;  he 
heard — alas  for  him! — her  siren  tones  of  appre- 
ciation and  admiration.  He  had  not,  he  knew,  justi- 
fied himself  in  her  eyes,  but  that  should  all  be 
changed;  he  promised  himself  that  she  should  think 
well  of  him,  that  he  would  still  achieve  that  success 
which  every  woman  has  a  right  to  expect  in  the 
man  whom  she  marries.  Even  Walter  —  supercili- 
ous, prosperous  Walter,  jingling  coin  in  his  pocket 
—  should  think  well  of  him.  To  Cora's  opinion  he 
attributed  no  value.  But  he  anticipated  more  and 
more  pleasantly  the  moment  when  he  should  tell 
Mrs.  Scott  his  happy  secret. 

That  his  condition  might  become  apparent  to  the 
sharp  eyes  which  daily  reviewed  him,  that  it  might 
require  some  cunning  to  conceal  from  his  wife  the 
aura  of  renewed  hopes  in  which  he  walked,  did  not 
occur  to  him.  If  the  evidences  of  excitement  had 
been  hers,  if  she  had  shown  signs  of  interest  in 
affairs  unknown  to  him,  he  would  have  let  her  pro- 
ceed, unquestioned  and  unmolested,  glad  in  his 


A  WALTONVILLE  DELILAH  271 

secret  soul  that  he  did  not  have  to  know.  But  Mrs. 
Scott's  position  was  different.  She  planned  a  gayer 
August  than  ever  before,  and  such  an  expression  of 
countenance  as  that  brought  by  Dr.  Scott  to  break- 
fast could  have  been  inspired  only  by  some  small 
literary  success. 

Had  the  work  which  he  had  done  been  paid  for.'* 
Mrs.  Scott  had  long  since  lost  interest  in  successes 
which  were  not  accompanied  by  money,  and  since 
she  had  heard  from  Mr.  Utterly  of  the  prices  paid 
for  promising  stories,  she  had  despised  in  secret  her 
husband's  receipts.  It  seemed  to  her  that  now  he 
must  have  achieved  something  worth  while. 

In  his  absence  on  one  of  his  long  walks,  she  vis- 
ited his  study  and  turned  over  his  papers.  But  he 
had  left  accessible  no  written  word  of  his  own,  and 
Basil  Everman's  manuscript  lay  safely  in  Dr.  Lis- 
ter's desk  drawer,  awaiting  Mrs.  Lister's  decision. 
She  slipped  out  of  their  envelopes  several  letters, 
but  found  only  a  few  small  bills  for  books.  Neither 
an  invitation  to  write  an  article  in  exchange  for  a 
hundred  dollars  nor  an  actual  check  for  ten  dollars 
appeared.  She  frowned  and  for  several  days  said 
less  than  usual.  Then,  Dr.  Scott's  preoccupation 
increasing,  she  pleaded  general  weariness  and  a 
severe  headache  and  stayed  in  bed. 

In  the  evening  Dr.  Scott  went  to  sit  for  an  hour 
in  her  room.  She  lay  high  on  her  pillows  with  a  flut- 
ter of  lace  and  ribbons  about  her,  and  he  sat  by 
the  window,  a  pleasant  breeze  fanning  him,  a  young 
moon  smiling  at  him  over  the  shoulder  of  the  Lister 
house.  The  Lister  house  was  dark  and  somber  in  the 


272  BASIL  EVERMAN 

deep  shadow  and  its  almost  sinister  appearance 
might  have  warned  him  to  keep  its  secrets.  But  he 
was  not  warned. 

Mrs.  Scott  talked  about  his  work,  about  the 
drudgery  of  the  classroom,  about  the  dull  boys  and 
girls  upon  whom  he  wasted  so  many  weary  hours, 
about  the  pittance  he  received.  She  wished  for  him 
leisure,  larger  pay,  opportunities  such  as  he  de- 
served. 

"It  is  all  you  need  to  bring  you  out.  I  get  angry 
at  the  conditions  under  which  you  slave  in  this  dull 
town  when  you  might  take  a  high  place  elsewhere 
and  become  famous." 

"You  rate  me  highly,  my  dear,"  said  Dr.  Scott. 
Nevertheless  he  smiled. 

"No,  I  don't,"  contradicted  Mrs.  Scott.  "Here  is 
Mrs.  Lister's  brother  writing  a  few  things  and  dull 
things  at  that,  and  having  his  name  heralded 
through  the  whole  world;  and  here  is  Eleanor  Bent, 
a  nobody,  with  her  name  in  every  one's  mouth." 

Dr.  Scott  looked  out  of  the  window.  He  had 
suffered  —  and  blushed  with  shame  for  it  —  acute 
envy  of  Eleanor  and  her  youth. 

"  You  could  do  so  much  better !  You  are  older  and 
more  learned  and  you  have  had  more  experience 
and  more  outlook  on  the  world." 

Dr.  Scott  glanced  back  into  the  room.  His  eyes 
settled  themselves  on  the  figure  on  the  bed.  If  he 
could  have  seen  Mrs.  Scott  clearly,  he  would  have 
recalled  the  disillusioning  years  between  his  wed- 
ding day  and  this  moment.  But  he  saw  in  the  dusk 
only  the  motion  of  a  hand  which  seemed  to  brush 


A  WALTONVILLE  DELILAH  273 

away  a  tear.  This  was  the  wife  of  his  bosom,  a  part 
of  himself! 

"  I  am  to  have  an  enviable  opportunity,"  said  he 
slowly.  "The  Listers  have  asked  me  —  that  is. 
Dr.  Lister  has  asked  me  —  to  edit  and  prepare  for 
publication  the  works  of  Mrs.  Lister's  brother, 
Basil  Everman." 

"You  mean  that  story  and  those  other  things!" 
Mrs.  Scott's  voice  was  flat,  disappointed,  angry. 

"Those  and  many  equally  valuable  compositions 
which  have  accidentally  come  to  light  after  many 
years." 

"'Accidentally  come  to  light'!"  repeated  Mrs. 
Scott,  with  fine  scorn.  "Didn't  I  tell  you  they 
would  ransack  every  chest  in  the  attic  after  what 
Utterly  said?  Are  they  really  worth  anything?" 

"They  are  magnificent,"  said  Dr.  Scott,  trying 
to  keep  his  voice  steady.  "They  will  form  a  notable 
addition  to  the  literature  of  America,  to  the  litera- 
ture indeed  of  the  world." 

"Of  all  things!"  With  a  vigor  which  escaped  the 
notice  of  her  husband  Mrs.  Scott  sat  suddenly  up- 
right. "Won't  this  town  be  surprised!" 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  protested  Dr.  Scott.  "Nothing 
is  to  be  said,  nothing!  It  is  all  in  the  air  as  yet. 
Nothing  is  decided  definitely.  Oh,  my  dear,  not  a 
word  to  any  one!" 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  that  nothing  has  been  de- 
cided definitely,"  said  Mrs.  Scott.  "Glad,  indeed! 
What  have  they  offered  you  to  do  this  work, 
Henry?" 

Dr.  Scott's  whole  body  quivered. 


274  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"Offered  me?" 

"Yes;  what  have  they  offered  to  pay  you?" 

"We  have  n't  said  anything  about  pay." 

"Were  you  going  to  do  it  for  nothing?"  Mrs. 
Scott's  tone  imphed  that  exactly  this  particular 
lunacy  was  to  have  been  expected. 

"It  is  a  very  great  honor  to  be  asked,"  answered 
Dr.  Scott  nervously.  "It  will,  I  am  convinced,  be 
an  opportunity,  leading  probably  to  other  things." 

"To  other  things!"  repeated  Mrs.  Scott.  "I 
want  something  more  substantial  than  opportuni- 
ties leading  to  other  things.  I  am  sick  of  honors 
without  pay.  Why,  Utterly  said  he  would  give  a 
thousand  dollars  for  another  story!  A  thousand 
dollars  is  almost  as  much  as  you  earn  in  an  entire 
year.  They  '11  make  a  fortune,  and  they  are  well  off 
already !  I  should  n't  be  surprised  if  they  could  live 
without  Dr.  Lister's  salary.  And  he  gets  five  hun- 
dred dollars  more  a  year  than  you  do.  If  you  charge 
them  well,  they  '11  think  better  of  you.  I  '11  warrant 
they're  trying  to  get  it  done  here  because  they 
think  you'll  do  it  for  nothing  and  for  no  other 
reason  whatever.  I  am  pretty  sick  of  the  Listers 
anyhow.  Here  is  poor  Cora  in  love  with  Richard 
and  encouraged  by  all  of  them  since  she  was  a 
baby  and  he  running  round  now  with  that  miser- 
able Bent  girl.  I  would  make  them  pay  well  for 
every  hour  I  spent  on  their  work !  They  will  make 
enough  out  of  it,  I  '11  warrant !  Why,  it  is  like  find- 
ing money  for  them!  I  — " 

Dr.  Scott  lifted  his  hand  with  an  uncertain  mo- 
tion to  his  head.  Thus  might  Samson  have  felt  of 


A  WALTONVILLE  DELILAH  275 

his  shorn  pate  when  he  hfted  it  from  the  lap  of 
Delilah. 

"Oh,  my  dear!"  said  he.  "Oh,  my  dear!" 

"I  mean  it  all,"  insisted  Mrs.  Scott.  "Every  last 
word." 

Then,  to  his  unspeakable  discomfort,  she  stepped 
from  bed  and  came  across  the  room  and  kissed 
him. 

"I'd  charge  either  by  the  hour  for  my  work,  or 
else  I'd  ask  a  high  percentage  on  the  sale  of  the 
books  and  have  an  iron-bound  agreement  to  see 
the  publisher's  accounts.  You  cannot  be  too  care- 
ful. This  is  the  time  for  you  to  take  council  with 
Walter,  papa.  You  have  no  idea  how  keen  he  is; 
you  have  never  had  patience  with  him  or  done 
him  justice.  I  think  you  should  send  word  to  him 
to  come  here.  He  would  be  glad  to  make  the  trip  for 
such  a  reason.  You  could  go  to  see  him,  but  if  he 
came  here  he  could  talk  to  the  Listers  himself.  He 
is  certainly  the  one  to  make  the  contract.  I  do  not 
see  why  you  should  trouble  yourself  with  the  mat- 
ter at  all." 

Mrs.  Scott  took  silence  for  consent,  or  at  least 
for  respectful  consideration  of  her  suggestions. 

"You  think  it  over,"  said  she,  as  she  returned  to 
bed.  "You  will  see  that  I  am  right." 

Dr.  Scott  slept  uneasily.  He  dreamed  of  impend- 
ing avalanches  and  of  being  compelled  to  enter,  not 
entirely  clothed,  into  the  presence  of  some  august 
tribunal. 

When  he  woke  early  on  a  cloudy  morning,  he  lay 
for  a  while  very  still  with  his  eyes  turned  away  from 


276  BASIL  EVERMAN 

«<» 

the  sleeping  figure  at  his  side.  After  a  long  time  he 
rose  quickly  and,  taking  his  clothing,  stole  into  the 
spare  room  to  dress.  Something  had  happened  to 
him  overnight.  A  situation  long  suspended  had 
crystallized,  long  dully  seen,  had  become  plain. 
Betrayed  and  cajoled,  he  had  revealed  a  secret  en- 
trusted to  him.  He  laid  no  blame  upon  his  wife. 
He  said,  without  bitterness,  that  he  should  have 
known,  did  know  Mrs.  Scott.  It  seemed  to  him  — 
and  herein  lay  the  source  of  his  misery  —  that  his 
own  moral  fiber  must  have  been  gradually  weaken- 
ing or  he  could  not  have  so  failed  himself. 

When  he  heard  Mrs.  Scott  stirring,  he  came  into 
the  room. 

"I  hope  you  feel  quite  well." 

"Oh,  yes!"  She  did  not  regret  yesterday's  strat- 
egy, but  she  was  thinking  that  now  yesterday's 
tasks  were  still  to  be  done.  "I  think  you  ought 
to  write  to  Walter  right  after  breakfast,  Henry." 

Dr.  Scott  straightened  his  tall  figure.  His  decla- 
ration of  independence  had  been  formulated. 

"It  is  none  of  Walter's  business.  He  is  perfectly 
incapable  of  managing  this  affair.  His  instincts  are 
those  of  the  counting-house.  He  is  to  know  noth- 
ing about  it.  If  you  speak  of  it  to  any  one,  I  shall 
give  the  whole  thing  up,  both  the  work  and  the 
money  —  if  there  is  any  money  involved.  My 
sense  of  honor  will  not  allow  me  to  proceed  with 
it  for  a  day." 

Brush  in  hand,  Mrs.  Scott  looked  at  him  with 
amazement.  Unfortunately  she  had  never  been 
spoken  to  in  this  fashion  in  all  her  married  life. 


A  WALTONVILLE  DELILAH  277 

**Do  you  think  you've  succeeded  so  well,  Henry, 
that  you  can't  take  any  advice?" 

"I  know  better  than  you  do  whether  I've  suc- 
ceeded or  failed.  I'm  speaking  of  this  particular 
instance,  and  what  I  say  is  this,  if  you  breathe  a 
word  of  what  I  have  told  you  to  Walter,  or  to  any 
one,  I  give  the  whole  thing  up!  Work  like  this  is 
generally  paid  for,  but  I  do  not  care  whether  it  is 
paid  or  not.  I  should  be  glad  to  do  it  for  nothing. 
Since  you  do  care  for  money,  you  had  better  see 
that  you  don't  lose  whatever  there  is  in  it  by  talking 
about  it." 

He  went  downstairs,  his  knees  shaking  under 
him,  but  a  heavenly  sense  of  freedom  in  his  heart. 
In  the  dining-room  he  found  Cora  standing  by  the 
window  waiting  for  the  advent  of  her  elders.  He 
had  meant  to  talk  to  her,  but  this  was  not  the  time. 
He  felt  a  sudden,  keen  pity  for  her  white  face  and 
her  drooping  shoulders.  She  was  so  steady,  so  occu- 
pied with  her  own  small  concerns,  so  —  if  the  truth 
must  be  told  —  dull;  he  did  not  think  her  capable 
of  any  grand  passion  or  deep  sorrow.  It  was  not 
easy,  he  was  certain,  for  her  to  bear  her  trouble 
under  her  mother's  eye.  But  she  would  get  over  it, 
she  was  young.  It  might  make  it  harder  for  her  if 
he  talked  to  her  about  it. 

All  day  he  hung  about  the  house.  Mrs.  Scott 
was  packing  her  trunks,  but  he  was  afraid  that 
some  one  might  come  in.  He  was  not  yet  quite  as 
free  as  he  thought.  To-morrow  she  would  be  gone 
and  he  could  breathe  for  a  little  while  in  peace. 
Then  his  sensitive  soul  reproached  him.  When  at 


278  BASIL  EVERMAN 

dark,  Dr.  Lister  came  to  tell  him  that  Mrs.  Lister 
had  consented  to  the  publication  of  Basil's  work, 
and  he  went  to  tell  Mrs.  Scott,  she  smiled  from  one 
corner  of  her  mouth. 

"Did  you  suppose  she  would  n't  consent?"  said 
she. 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

A  DEEPENING  SHADOW 

As  the  days  passed  the  friendly  relations  between 
Mrs.  Bent  and  her  daughter  were  not  restored. 
Mrs.  Bent  looked  at  Eleanor  furtively,  cried  when 
she  was  away  from  her,  and  redoubled  all  her  self- 
sacrificing  toil.  The  sound  of  a  step  on  the  porch 
made  her  shiver.  She  spoke  to  Eleanor  and  Eleanor 
spoke  to  her  as  though  there  were  an  ever-present 
danger  of  another  breaking-through  of  the  thin 
crust  which  masked  a  crater  of  seething  emotion. 
Mrs.  Bent  need  not  have  feared  that  her  daughter 
would  open  the  subject  which  had  led  to  so  un- 
pleasant a  scene.  No  one  who  had  the  run  of  Dr. 
Green's  library  could  fail  to  know  that  there  were 
other  forms  of  existence  beside  the  conventional 
unions  of  Waltonville's  married  folk  and  Eleanor 
had,  with  youth's  eagerness  to  learn  the  ways  of  a 
wider  world,  followed  the  lives  of  a  few  historical 
examples  of  other  sorts  of  union.  She  had  believed 
herself  to  be  in  this  matter,  as  in  others,  broad- 
minded.  But  now  her  opinions  had  changed;  a  fear- 
ful possibility  threatened  her.  She  came  to  believe 
that  her  mother  waited  an  opportunity  to  confide 
in  her  a  secret  no  longer  to  be  hidden  and  grown  too 
heavy  to  bear  alone.  In  her  fright  she  avoided  her 
mother,  and  when  they  were  together  interrupted 
with  some  foolishness  each  sentence  which  promised 
to  be  serious. 


280  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"I  am  sorry  for  her,"  cried  Eleanor  to  herself. 
"I  am  sorry,  but  I  cannot  Hsten  to  her." 

In  the  middle  of  a  hot  August  afternoon  she 
determined  to  go  for  a  walk.  If  she  went  a  long 
distance  and  came  home  tired  and  drank  no  cofiFee 
for  her  supper,  it  might  be  that  she  could  sleep 
through  the  night.  She  had  no  goal  in  view;  she 
would  simply  go  on  until  she  was  tired  and  then 
turn  for  the  long  walk  home.  As  she  dressed  she 
reproached  herself  for  her  weakness.  She  would 
persuade  her  mother  to  go  away  from  Walton ville; 
it  was  said  that  time  and  new  scenes  cured  troubles 
of  the  mind.  They  would  go  to  a  larger  place  where 
no  on^  would  inquire  into  their  business  or  even 
know  them. 

"But  I  don't  want  to  know  anything  about  it!" 
said  Eleanor  to  herself.  "I  don't  want  her  to  tell 
me!  If  she  tells  me  I  shall  die!" 

Standing  before  her  mirror  she  brushed  her  dark 
hair  with  long,  sweeping  motions  of  her  arm.  Her 
eyes  met  their  reflection. 

"I  am  beautiful,"  said  Eleanor.  "There  is  some 
satisfaction  in  that." 

Then  her  cheeks  crimsoned.  Neither  her  eyes  nor 
her  dark  hair  nor  her  height  had  come  from  her 
mother — from  whom  had  they  come?  She  gave  up 
her  intention  to  walk  and  threw  herself  face  down- 
ward upon  her  bed. 

"I  will  not  hear  anything  about  it,"  said  she.  "I 
will  think  only  of  going  away." 

But  her  fears  were  stronger  than  her  will.  Her 
mind  traveled  again  its  old  round.  There  was  sod- 


A  DEEPENING  SHADOW  281 

den,  debauched  Bates,  with  his  rude  and  intimate 
salutation;  there  was  the  impertinent  freedom  of 
Mrs.  Scott;  there  was  the  appraising  stare  of 
Walter  Simpson  Scott;  there  was  her  mother's 
embarrassed  unwillingness  to  talk  about  Basil 
Everman;  there  was  also  that  strange  voice  which 
she  had  heard  long  ago,  that  voice  which  seemed  to 
reprove  and  to  beseech  her  mother. 

"She  is  good!"  cried  Eleanor.  "And  I  am  wicked 
and  hateful!" 

Presently  she  was  wakened  by  the  opening  of  the 
door  in  the  hall  below,  and  she  sprang  up,  deceived 
for  an  instant  into  thinking  that  Richard  Lister 
had  returned  and  was  asking  for  her.  Then  she  lay 
down,  dizzily.  The  voice  was  not  Richard's,  but 
Dr.  Green's  older,  deeper  tones  which  asked,  "Is 
Eleanor  at  home?" 

When  her  mother  answered  that  she  had  gone 
out,  Eleanor  closed  her  eyes.  He  had  probably  come 
to  invite  her  to  ride  into  the  country  with  him.  But 
she  could  not  go;  she  could  not  bear  the  heat  or  the 
light  or  his  bright  eyes.  Their  expression  disturbed 
her,  had  disturbed  her  subconsciously  for  weeks, 
the  look  of  hunger  which  had  brightened  them  when 
she  had  told  him  of  her  success  with  "Professor 
Ellenborough's  Last  Class"  reminding  her  of  the 
eyes  of  a  caged  animal,  of  strong  feeling  kept  under, 
but  there,  waiting  to  blaze  out.  She  had  been  re- 
pelled by  it. 

Dr.  Green,  told  that  she  was  out,  did  not  go 
away.  He  said,  instead,  "It  is  you  I  wish  to  see, 
Margie." 


282  BASIL  EVERMAN 

Eleanor  heard  a  step,  the  opening  of  a  door  into 
the  dining-room,  then  its  sharp  closing. 

She  sat  up  on  the  edge  of  her  bed.  Had  her  mother 
sent  for  Dr.  Green?  That  was  not  possible,  both 
from  the  nature  of  his  greeting  and  because  her 
mother  had  only  her  to  send  on  errands.  Could  it 
be  that  she  was  ill,  and  that  he  had  observed  it  and 
had  come  to  remonstrate  with  her  for  not  having 
medical  advice?  If  there  was  anything  the  matter 
with  her  mother,  she  must  know.  She  rose  quickly 
and  went  on  with  her  dressing. 

Then  her  face  grew  white.  Dr.  Green  had  called 
her  mother  "Margie!"  Moreover,  he  was  now 
loudly  and  rudely  remonstrating  with  her.  He 
was,  one  might  say,  storming  at  Mrs.  Bent.  It 
was  as  though  the  caged  animal  in  his  breast  had 
escaped. 

Eleanor  stood  still,  her  figure  straight,  one  hand 
pressing  the  thick  coil  of  her  dark  hair  close  to  her 
head,  the  other  holding  a  long  pin.  Her  hair  was 
drawn  back  closely;  the  unsoftened  line  of  her  fore- 
head and  cheek  changed  her  expression,  gave  her  a 
different  and  austere  cast  of  countenance.  She  stood 
motionless,  regarding  herself  absently  until  her 
arms  dropped.  It  was  Dr.  Green,  of  course,  who  had 
long  ago  scolded  her  mother! 

Downstairs  Green's  voice  rose  and  fell,  rose  and 
fell.  There  was  the  heat  of  anger  in  it,  there  was  a 
tone  of  command,  there  was  no  softer  tone. 

But  Eleanor  no  longer  heard.  Again  she  gathered 
her  hair  back  from  her  face  and  stood  looking  at 
herself.  She  saw  the  single  line  of  austerity;  she 


A  DEEPENING  SHADOW  283 

turned  her  head  now  this  way,  now  that.  Then  she 
sat  down  once  more  on  the  edge  of  her  bed. 

For  more  than  an  hour  she  watched  the  ticking 
clock.  It  was  half-past  two  when  Dr.  Green's  first 
angry  sentence  fell  upon  the  quiet  air;  it  was  four 
when  he  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

When  at  last  she  went  downstairs,  her  mother  had 
gone  into  the  garden.  Mrs.  Bent  came  in  and  put 
the  supper  on  the  table  slowly,  and  called  Eleanor. 
When  supper  was  eaten  and  the  dishes  put  away, 
she  joined  her  daughter  on  the  porch. 

"I  have  something  I  must  tell  you,"  said  she. 

Eleanor  sprang  up  in  panic. 

"I  can't  stop  now,  mother.  I  must  go  for  the 
mail.  I  have  important  mail  coming.  I  must  go." 

Mrs.  Bent  looked  at  her,  then  down  at  the  floor. 
She  twisted  her  hands  together. 

"All  right." 

Eleanor  walked  swiftly  through  the  dusk. 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  anything,"  said  she.  "I 
will  not  hear  anything." 

As  she  approached  the  college  gate  she  halted 
for  an  instant,  out  of  breath  and  panting.  Two 
men  were  coming  slowly  toward  her  from  the  other 
side.  She  heard  Dr.  Lister's  clear,  high  voice  and 
Dr.  Scott's  answering  laugh.  Not  only  had  Mrs. 
Lister  given  her  consent  to  the  publication  of  Basil's 
manuscript,  but  the  publisher  of  **Willard's,"  who 
was  also  a  publisher  of  books,  had  said  in  answer 
to  Dr.  Scott's  inquiry  that  he  would  be  deeply 
interested  in  any  work  of  Basil  Everman's.  Last, 


284  BASIL  EVERMAN 

but  not  least,  Mrs.  Scott  had  gone  to  Atlantic  City. 
Her  husband  had  many  reasons  for  cheerfulness. 

"I  wish  that  each  day  had  forty-eight  hours  and 
that  every  one  was  a  working  hour,"  Eleanor  heard 
him  say  gayly.  Then,  as  Dr.  Lister  turned  to  go 
back  to  his  own  door.  Dr.  Scott  called  after  him, 
"So  Richard  is  back!" 

"Yes,"  answered  Dr.  Lister.  "He  came  the  day 
before  yesterday  by  way  of  Niagara.  Mrs.  Lister 
is  getting  him  ready  to  go  to  New  York." 

"When  does  he  go.?" 

"To-morrow.  I'm  going  with  him.  His  teacher 
does  n't  usually  begin  so  early,  but  he  is  making  a 
special  case  of  Richard." 

"He's  a  lucky  boy." 

A  meeting  with  Dr.  Scott  at  the  gate  could  not 
be  avoided.  He  lifted  his  hat  and  came  to  Eleanor's 
side  with  courtly  alacrity.  He  had  no  longer  envy 
for  any  living  soul.  He  told  her  as  they  walked  along 
about  Basil  Everman,  about  his  youth,  about  the 
extraordinary  achievement  which  was  to  startle  the 
reading  world. 

"We  lack  information  about  the  two  years  of 
his  absence  from  Waltonville.  They  were  his  richest 
years.  But  we  must  be  grateful  for  what  we  have." 
He  looked  down  kindly.  The  summer,  he  thought, 
had  been  hard  on  Eleanor  as  it  had  been  hard  on 
every  one.  "It  makes  one  wish  to  be  very  diligent, 
does  n't  it  —  such  a  record  as  this  lad's?" 

Tears  came  into  Eleanor's  eyes.  She  longed  to 
say,  "Yes,  but  what  if  no  diligence  avails.f^"  But 
^he  could  not  trust  herself  to  say  anything. 


A  DEEPENING  SHADOW  285 

At  the  door  of  the  post-oflSce  Dr.  Scott  bowed 
himself  away.  So  Richard  was  here,  had  been  here 
since  the  day  before  yesterday  and  had  not  been 
to  see  her! 

Then  Eleanor  put  a  period  upon  the  episode  of 
Richard.  As  she  stepped  out  the  door,  she  encoun- 
tered him  coming  in.  Their  eyes  met  and  clung  to 
one  another,  their  cheeks  crimsoned. 

"Eleanor!"  cried  Richard. 

"Well?"  said  Eleanor. 

Richard  seemed  to  be  struggling  to  find  words 
in  which  to  answer.  When  he  sought  in  vain,  she 
looked  at  him,  unsmilingly,  from  under  level  brows. 

"I  wish  you  would  let  me  pass,"  said  she. 

She  did  not  go  in  the  direction  of  the  little  gray 
house,  but  out  toward  the  far  end  of  Waltonville. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  afraid  of  even  after  dark 
in  the  quiet  country  roads,  and  at  home  there  was 
a  great  deal  to  be  afraid  of. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

DR.  SCOTT  PAYS  A  CALL 

Dr.  Scott  manufactured  beautiful  phrases  as  he 
walked  to  Thomasma's.  He  thought  of  his  last 
visit  to  her  house,  when  he  had  been  accompa- 
nied, when  his  most  polished  sentences  had  hung, 
unfinished,  on  the  air  while  Mrs.  Scott  spoke  of 
matters  totally  unrelated  to  the  subject  in  hand. 
This  call  would  be  very  different.  He  hoped  that 
Thomasina  would  let  him  sit  in  the  semi-dark- 
ness of  her  parlor,  and  look  out  into  her  garden. 
He  was  punctilious  about  appearances;  he  had  not 
the  least  instinct  of  a  Don  Juan,  and  he  would  have 
been  horrified  to'  have  any  one  suppose  that  his 
affections  wandered  for  an  instant.  But  to-night 
he  did  not  care  for  appearances.  If  a  suspicious 
spouse  had  been  upon  his  track,  if  the  whole  vil- 
lage had  been  at  gaze,  he  would  still  have  gone 
to  call  upon  Thomasina.  She  was  of  Basil  Ever- 
man's  generation,  she  would  be  able  to  talk  well 
about  him.  She  was  a  keen  observer  who  would 
have  remembered  and  noted  incidents  and  traits 
that  even  his  sister  might  have  forgotten.  He  had 
many  questions  to  ask;  he  would  be  scholarly  and 
elaborate  and  impressive  —  Dr.  Scott  at  his  best. 
It  would  disappoint  him  keenly  to  find  that  Thoma- 
sina was  not  at  home,  or  that  there  were  other 
callers  to  claim  her  attention. 


DR.  SCOTT  PAYS  A  CALL  287 

But  Thomasina  was  at  home  and  she  was  alone. 
She  was  pale,  but  paleness  was  not  unbecoming. 
He  looked  at  her  with  admiration.  She  was  dis- 
tinguished, she  was  a  personage,  she  was  the  most 
notable  citizen  of  Waltonville,  and  he  was  proud 
of  her  friendship. 

She  inquired  for  Mrs.  Scott  and  for  Cora.  She 
was  not  unaware  of  Cora's  trouble.  She  spoke  of 
Richard  and  of  the  opportunities  before  him. 

"He  has  talent  and  time  and  youth  and  ambition 
and  ample  means,"  said  she. 

"It  sounds  too  promising." 

"Oh,  he'll  be  chastened,  poor  lad.  We  all  are, 
sooner  or  later!" 

"Miss  Thomasina — "  Dr.  Scott  paused;  a  sen- 
tence hovered  upon  the  edge  of  recollection;  he 
tried  to  identify  and  complete  it.  Was  it  something 
about  "a  girl  to  go  gypsying  with  through  all  the 
world"?  Such  a  girl  he  seemed  to  see  before  him. 

"Yes?"  said  Thomasina  encouragingly. 

"I  am  to  have  an  extraordinary  opportunity 
thanks  to  Mrs.  Lister." 

"Yes?"  said  Thomasina  with  a  little  more  curi- 
osity. Her  heart  was  still  sore  at  thought  of  Mary 
Alcestis. 

"I  am  to  edit  her  brother's  works!'* 

"What  works?"  asked  Thomasina. 

"Works  which  they  have  found;  other  stories, 
poems,  translations,  an  incredibly  rich  and  valuable 
collection." 

Thomasina  leaned  forward,  an  intensely  eager 
look  in  her  brown  eyes. 


288  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"Works  they  have  found!  Where?" 

"  I  think  they  were  put  away.  I  think  from  what 
Dr.  Lister  said  her  grief  for  her  brother  was  so  great 
that  she  could  not  bear  to  have  them  touched." 

''And  who  has  touched  them  now? "  asked  Thom- 
asina  in  a  hard  voice. 

*'  I  think  —  it  is  my  impression  —  that  Dr.  Lister 
found  them  and  persuaded  her." 

Thomasina  sank  back  in  her  chair. 

"Did  you  know  Basil  Everman  well?"  asked  Dr. 
Scott. 

"Yes."  Thomasina's  voice  was  now  a  whisper. 

"I  wonder  whether  you  would  talk  to  me  about 
him.  I  must  prepare  a  biographical  chapter  and  the 
material  is  so  very  scant." 

Thomasina  rose  unsteadily,  and  asked  to  be  ex- 
cused for  a  moment.  She  went  out  into  the  hall 
and  climbed  the  stairs  slowly.  When  she  came  back 
she  carried  her  little  inlaid  box  as  though  it  con- 
tained precious  and  fragile  jewels.  She  stood  before 
Dr.  Scott  and  held  it  out. 

"Here  are  Basil  Everman's  letters,"  said  she. 
"They  show  all  his  plans  and  hopes.  They  were 
written  to  me."  The  first  utterance  of  a  bride  could 
have  been  no  more  filled  with  sweet  triumph.  "I 
did  not  know  that  any  of  his  plans  had  been  carried 
out.  I  did  not  know  anything  survived.  You  may 
use  the  letters  if  you  wish." 

Dr.  Scott  felt  like  Richard  that  there  were  mo- 
ments in  life  to  which  one  could  say,  "Linger,  thou 
art  so  fair!" 

Thomasina  still  held  out  the  little  box. 


DR.  SCOTT  PAYS  A  CALL  9S» 

"Do  you  wish  me  to  look  at  them  now?" 

"If  you  will" 

He  put  out  a  shaking  hand.  He  would  have 
thought  long  before  exchanging  this  experience  for 
a  year  of  the  opportunities  of  a  Boswell. 

Thomasina  took  up  a  book;  then  she  walked  into 
her  garden;  then  she  crossed  the  hall,  closing  both 
doors  behind  her,  and  practiced  finger  exercises  in 
her  music  room.  The  light,  delicate  arpeggios  and 
runs  and  trills  came  faintly  to  Dr.  Scott's  en- 
chanted ears.  Thus  had  Thomasina  quieted  her 
soul  a  thousand  times. 

When  she  returned  there  remained  but  one  letter 
in  the  little  box.  Dr.  Scott  was  not  reading;  he  sat 
staring  at  the  floor.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  had 
helped  to  open  the  tomb  of  a  Queen  Ta,  that  he 
had  touched  the  jewels  with  which  the  hands  of 
love  had  decked  her.  Then  he  looked  up.  Thoma- 
sina regarded  him;  alive,  breathing,  lovely,  she  was 
not  in  the  least  like  Queen  Ta.  He  felt  that  he  must 
speak,  but  his  eloquence,  slow,  but  equal  to  every 
occasion,  failed  him  now. 

"If  you  will  tell  me  what  passages  you  wish  to 
use,  I  shall  copy  them  for  you." 

"May  I  say  that  they  were  written  to  you?" 

An  inward  light  illumined  Thomasina's  face.  It 
was  not  pride,  it  was  an  emotion  more  intense,  more 
exalted. 

"You  have  been  honored  above  most  women," 
said  Dr.  Scott. 

Thomasina  took  one  of  the  letters  in  her  hand. 

"Say  they  were  written  to  a  friend.  His  biog- 


290  ^BASIL  EVERMAN 

raphy  does  not  need  me,  and  I  had  rather  be  in- 
visible beside  him."  Thus  Thomasina,  who  longed, 
in  Mrs.  Lister's  opinion,  for  fame!  "  Now  I  must  go 
over  to  the  Listers  to  say  good-bye  to  Richard." 

Together  Dr.  Scott  and  Thomasina  crossed  the 
campus  and  at  the  Listers'  door  Dr.  Scott  said 
good-night.  He  could  scarcely  wait  to  get  back  to 
his  study  and  to  his  pen.  He  did  not  mean  to  stop 
at  his  house;  indeed,  he  thought  it  unlikely  that  his 
house  would  see  him  until  dawn,  but  remembering 
a  need  for  matches,  he  ran  up  the  steps.  There  sit- 
ting on  the  doorstep,  a  valise  beside  her,  was  a 
small  figure. 

"Cora!"  said  Dr.  Scott.  "What  in  the  world  are 
you  doing  here?" 

Cora  rose  stiffly.  It  seemed  that  she  had  been 
waiting  a  long  time. 

"I  came  back  on  the  nine  o'clock  train." 

"Where  is  your  mother .f^" 

"She  is  at  Atlantic  City.  I  told  her  that  I  would 
n't  stay." 

The  last  sentence  startled  Dr.  Scott  even  more 
than  Cora's  unexpected  appearance.  He  unlocked 
the  door  and  picked  up  the  valise.  There  was  a  new 
tone  in  her  sweet  voice,  a  tone  which  disturbed  him, 
but  when  he  got  the  lamp  lighted  and  had  a  good 
look  at  her  round  little  face,  it  would  doubtless  seem 
imaginary.  Surely  it  could  not  be  that  she  had  come 
home  so  as  to  be  near  Richard  Lister! 

When  the  lamp  was  lit,  it  seemed  to  reveal  the 
same  Cora,  a  little  white  and  tired  and  travel- 
stained,  but  surely  not  wild  or  violent! 


DR.  SCOTT  PAYS  A  CALL  291 

"Sit  down,  my  dear!" 

Cora  sat  down  heavily  on  a  little  gilt  chair. 

"Are  you  hungry?" 

"No,  I  thank  you,"  she  answered,  true  to  her 
polite  type. 

Dr.  Scott  sat  himself  down  on  the  second  step. 

"What  does  this  return  mean,  my  dear?  You 
went  away  to  have  a  change." 

Cora  looked  at  him,  looked  long  at  him.  In  that 
look  certain  messages  passed  from  her  to  her  father. 
For  a  long  time  she  did  not  answer,  then  she  burst 
into  tears. 

"I  am  not  crying  because  I  want  to  cry,"  said 
she  angrily.  "Or  because  I  feel  like  crying.  I  am 
tired,  that  is  why  I  cry.  I  came  home  because  I 
could  n't  stand  the  dullness." 

"The  dullness!"  Dr.  Scott  was  bewildered.  "Of 
Atlantic  City!" 

"I  want  something  to  do,"  demanded  Cora, 
"something  for  my  mind.  You  have  always  treated 
me  like  a  baby.  You've  sent  me  to  school  and  put 
me  out  of  your  thoughts.  You  don't  even  talk  to 
me  intelligently;  I  mean  that  you  don't  talk  to  me 
as  if  I  were  intelligent.  You  talk  to  Miss  Thoma- 
sina  and  Dr.  Lister  in  an  entirely  different  way.  I 
can  study  as  well  as  Richard  and  —  and  as — "  but 
the  name  of  her  rival  Cora  could  not  pronounce. 
"I  have  a  better  mind  than  Walter.  Walter  can't 
do  anything  but  make  money.  You  should  hear  him 
with  his  friends  at  Atlantic  City,  you  should  hear 
him  only  ten  minutes!  And  he  wants  me  to  like 
those  people!" 


292  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"My  dear—" 

But  Cora  had  not  said  all  she  had  to  say. 

"Mother  thinks  I  have  failed  because  I  am  not 
engaged  to  Richard.  He  never  thought  of  me.  I  am 
convinced  that  he  never  thought  of  me.  It  has  made 
me  appear  like  a  crazy  person.  I  don't  know  what 
the  Listers  think  of  me." 

Then  Cora  gave  her  father  a  shock  of  many  volts. 
She  had  not  read  her  padded  poets  or  her  Bible 
in  vain.  Nor  was  her  paternity  entirely  without 
evidence. 

"I  don't  wish  to  go  in  solemn  procession  all  my 
days  because  of  the  bitterness  of  my  soul." 

For  the  first  time  in  his  life,  Dr.  Scott's  reaction 
from  a  thrilling  experience  was  expressed  in  terms 
of  money.  He  determined  at  that  instant  that  his 
work  on  Basil  Everman's  writings  must  be  paid  for; 
he  determined,  moreover,  that  henceforth  the  whole 
of  his  salary  should  not  be  handed  over  as  hereto- 
fore. He  put  his  arm  round  his  weeping  daughter. 

"Don't  cry,  Cora!  You  will  have  plenty  left  in 
life.  Sometime  you  will  smile  over  this  trouble.  You 
and  I  will  work  together,  and  by  and  by  we  will  go 
abroad." 


CHAPTER  XXVI 

"let  us  be  entirely  frank  with  one  another" 

Eleanor  walked  far  out  on  the  country  road.  She 
met  no  one  and  felt  no  fear.  There  was  in  her  heart, 
on  the  contrary,  a  bitter  satisfaction  in  feeling  that 
she  was  doing  what  Cora  Scott  would  not  dream  of 
doing  and  what  Mrs.  Lister  would  heartily  disap- 
prove of.  She  felt  a  sullen  indifference  to  Walton- 
ville's  rules  of  conduct. 

As  she  went  on  she  made  plans.  As  soon  as 
arrangements  could  be  completed,  they  would  go 
away  to  return  no  more.  She  would  leave  behind 
her  all  the  gifts  which  Dr.  Green  had  showered  upon 
her  since  her  childhood.  She  saw  his  strong-featured 
face,  animated  by  intellect  and  will,  and  then 
Margie's  frightened  eyes  and  her  trembling  mouth. 
For  herself  she  would  not  have  anything  to  do  with 
love  in  any  of  its  manifestations. 

But  when  she  had  turned  back,  she  said  under 
her  breath,  "Oh,  Richard,  Richard!" 

As  she  passed  Dr.  Green's  door,  walking  rapidly 
because  she  felt  sudden  compunction  on  her 
mother's  account,  he  appeared  on  the  step  and 
spoke  to  her  with  astonishment. 

"Where  have  you  been  at  this  hour,  Eleanor?" 

Eleanor  looked  up  at  him,  hating  his  authorita- 
tive voice. 

"I've  been  walking  in  the  country." 


294  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"Come  in.^l  wish  to  speak  to  you." 

"  It 's  late ;  my  mother  does  not  know  where  I  am." 

"A  few  minutes  won't  make  any  diflFerence.  I'll 
walk  home  with  you." 

Against  her  will  Eleanor  went  slowly  up  the  steps 
and  into  the  untidy  rooms.  She  sat  down  upon  the 
edge  of  a  chair  in  the  oflBee  and  Dr.  Green  sat  oppo- 
site her. 

"I  have  persuaded  your  mother  to  go  away  from 
Waltonville." 

"Have  you?"  said  Eleanor. 

"Are  n't  you  interested?" 

"Oh,  yes."  Eleanor's  tone  belied  her  words. 

"It  is  time  that  you  were  getting  away." 

"Why?"  asked  Eleanor  perversely. 

"So  that  you  may  possess  the  world.  You  did  n't 
expect  to  stay  here  forever,  did  you?" 

Eleanor  made  no  answer.  There  were  certain  con- 
ditions under  which  she  would  have  been  willing 
to  stay  here  forever. 

Dr.  Green  looked  at  her  impatiently. 

"You  had  plans  for  your  future.  Where  is  the 
young  woman  who  was  going  to  be  George  Eliot 
and  Jane  Austen  in  one,  pray?  You  have  n't  for» 
gotten  her?" 

"She  has  ceased  to  exist.  I'm  not  interested  in 
writing." 

"Not  interested  in  writing!  Nonsense!"  He  be- 
gan to  argue  for  learning,  for  travel,  for  education. 
He  reminded  Eleanor  of  her  achievements,  of  her 
fine  mind;  he  told  her  that  it  was  sinful  to  think 
of  anything  but  her  own  mental  progress  in  these 


LET  US  BE  FRANK  WITH  ONE  ANOTHER     295 

formative  years.  She  had  no  responsibilities,  no 
cares,  nothing  to  look  after  but  herself.  She  should 
go  to  school,  continuing  her  work  at  a  university. 

"But  I  am  not  interested  in  writing,"  repeated 
Eleanor. 

"What  are  you  interested  in,  then.^"  Dr.  Green 
looked  angrily  at  the  pretty  creature  who  listened 
unmoved  to  his  harangue.  "I  spoke  to  you,  Elea- 
nor. I  asked  you  what  you  are  interested  in?" 

Eleanor  rose,  tall  and  slim,  and  looked  at  him 
across  the  untidy  oflSce.  It  seemed  to  her  that  he 
knew  about  Richard  and  that  he  was  mocking  her. 

"That  is  my  own  affair." 

Dr.  Green  rose  also  and  for  an  instant  the  two 
faced  one  another,  eye  meeting  eye. 

"Eleanor,"  he  announced  distinctly,  "if  you  ever 
speak  to  me  like  that  again,  I  shall  punish  you." 

Eleanor  measured  the  distance  to  the  door,  her 
eye  creeping  along  the  floor.  Then  she  looked  back 
at  Dr.  Green.  He  had  turned  pale,  the  fine,  severe 
line  of  his  forehead  and  cheek  were  outlined  plainly 
against  the  dark  woodwork  of  the  door  behind  him. 

"I  am  going  home,"  said  Eleanor. 

Dr.  Green  stepped  between  her  arid  the  door. 

"You  can't  go  like  this!"  said  he  earnestly. 

"I  can  go  any  way  I  choose,"  said  Eleanor. 
"You  have  no  authority  over  me.  I  know  perfectly 
well  what  is  in  your  mind  when  you  threaten  me. 
It  has  been  coming  to  me  slowly  for  a  long  time, 
but  I  was  too  dull  to  understand  until  to-day." 

Dr.  Green  still  stood  before  the  outer  door.  A 
deep  red  rose  from  neck  to  forehead. 


296  BASIL  EVERMAN 

"Your  mother  and  I  had  very  little  in  common," 
said  he  at  last.  Then,  after  a  long  pause,  "She  has 
had  every  comfort,  she  has  not  suffered,  she  has 
lived  exactly  the  quiet,  domestic,  undisturbed  life 
she  wanted  to  live." 

Still  Eleanor  said  nothing. 

"And  she  has  had  you." 

Eleanor  made  a  tiny  motion  with  her  hand. 

"All  my  boyhood  I  starved  for  learning.  When  I 
finished  my  college  course  and  was  about  to  enter 
the  medical  school,  I  found  myself  carried  away. 
I  had  starved  myself  in  other  ways.  I  had  known  no 
women.  Your  mother  was  very  pretty.  I  blame  my- 
self entirely.  But  she  could  n't  see  any  necessity 
for  my  going  on.  She  was  satisfied  with  things  as 
they  were.  I  had  ambitions;  she  — "  Dr.  Green  did 
not  finish  his  sentence,  but  it  was  impossible  not 
to  know  what  was  in  his  mind.  "I  gave  her  all  I  had 
to  leave  me  free  to  go  on,  and  that,  with  what  she 
had  from  her  father,  was  enough  for  her  to  live  on. 
She  went  away.  But  she  did  nH  tell  me  about  you !  '* 
Dr.  Green's  hands  clenched.  "We  had  had  hard 
times,  but  I  did  n't  deserve  that !  I  found  her  here 
by  mere  chance.  She  had  even  taken  another  name! 
But  I  don't  wish  to  cast  any  blame  on  her." 

"I  don't  want  to  hear  anything  said  against  her," 
said  Eleanor  bluntly. 

"I  am  not  going  to  say  anything  against  her," 
protested  Dr.  Green,  "except  that  she  has  had  the 
easier  part." 

"I  don't  see  that,"  said  Eleanor.  She  went  rap- 
idly toward  the  door. 


LET  US  BE  FRANK  WITH  ONE  ANOTHER  297 

"You  will  go  away  from  Waltonville?" 

"Yes." 

"Where  would  you  like  to  go?" 

"Where  I  can  get  work,  teaching  or  somethin^; 
of  that  kind." 

"Eleanor!^'  cried  Dr.  Green. 

She  paused,  her  hand  on  the  knob. 

"If  you  have  any  feeling  for  me  at  all,  you  won't 
even  make  it  necessary  for  me  to  tell  you  what  I  'm 
going  to  do." 

Then  she  went  down  the  oflBce  steps.  Dr.  Green 
let  her  go  alone. 

When  she  had  gone,  he  sat  and  looked  about. 
"The  little  monkey!"  said  he,  aloud.  Then  sud- 
denly he  rose  with  a  mighty  spring  and  opened 
the  door.  Though  the  hour  was  late  he  strode  up 
the  street  toward  the  college.  At  Thomasina's  he 
glanced  in,  but  the  house  was  dark.  As  he  went 
through  the  campus  gate,  he  saw  that  there  was  a 
light  in  Dr.  Lister's  study;  it  might  be  that  she  was 
there  —  if  so,  well  and  good;  it  would  save  him 
some  words. 

In  Dr.  Lister's  study  Richard  and  his  father  and 
mother  and  Thomasina  sat  together.  There  were 
traces  of  tears  on  Mrs.  Lister's  face,  as  was  natural 
to  one  who  was  bidding  farewell  this  evening  to  a 
happy  era.  Dr.  Lister  swung  his  foot  rapidly;  he 
anticipated  with  delight  his  journey  to  New  York. 
Thomasina  sat  with  Richard  on  the  sofa.  He  was 
thin;  his  boyish  good  looks  were  gone,  but  good 
looks  of  a  better  sort  had  come  to  take  their  place. 
He  discussed  impersonal  matters  with  a  manly  air. 


298  BASIL  EVERMAN 

All  four  were  glad  to  see  Dr.  Green.  The  mo- 
ments had  grown  a  little  diflScult  and  Thomasina 
took  advantage  of  his  coming  to  make  her  adieux. 

"I'll  see  you  next  month,  my  dear.  If  I  can  per- 
suade your  mother  to  come,  too,  we'll  have  a  fine 
lime." 

Green's  tall  figure  barred  the  way  to  the  hall. 

"Please  wait  a  minute,  Miss  Thomasina,"  said 
he.  "I  have  something  to  say  to  all  of  you  and  it  is 
easier  to  say  it  to  all  of  you  together.  Miss  Thoma- 
sina told  me  some  days  ago  that  you,  Mrs.  Lister, 
have  been  misled  by  several  coincidences  into  think- 
ing that  Eleanor  Bent  was  the  daughter  of  your 
brother  Basil." 

Mrs.  Lister  looked  aghast. 

"That  is  a  great  mistake,"  said  Dr.  Green. 
"Eleanor  Bent  is  my  daughter.  I  fell  in  love  with 
her  mother  when  I  was  here  and  followed  her  away. 
Before  Eleanor  was  born,  we  separated,  and  when  I 
came  here  to  practice  I  found  them.  Her  mother 
was  established  and  was  not  willing  to  readjust  her 
life  and  I  deferred  to  her.  It  was  an  absurd  mistake. 
Eleanor's  ideas  of  a  departed  parent  were  already 
fixed;  otherwise  it  would  have  been  more  absurd." 

Having  finished  his  speech.  Dr.  Green  was  left 
without  a  response.  One  would  have  thought  that 
he  had  stricken  his  audience  dumb.  After  a  long 
time  Dr.  Lister  swung  his  right  knee  over  his 
left. 

"Mrs.  Lister  thought  she  resembled  her  brother," 
said  he. 

"She  resembles  me,"  said  Dr.  Green. 


LET  US  BE  FRANK  WITH  ONE  ANOTHER    299 

"But  her  talent!"  said  Mrs.  Lister,  beginning 
to  cry. 

Green  smiled  grimly. 

"That  could  n't  have  been  inherited  from  me,  I 
suppose?"  said  he.  "I  asked  Mrs.  Bent  about  Basil 
Everman.  She  said  that  she  had  been  persecuted  by 
John  Bates,  then  sinking  into  debauchery,  and  that 
your  brother  had  protected  her.  She  looked  upon 
him  as  a  sort  of  Saint  George." 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh ! "  wept  Mary  Alcestis. 

Richard  rose  to  his  feet. 

"Does  Eleanor  know  this?"  he  demanded. 

"She  knows  now,"  said  Dr.  Green  sorely. 

"By  Gad,  you've  got  her  into  a  pretty  mess 
between  you!"  said  Richard. 

Thomasina  sat  with  her  hand  covering  her  eyes. 
Suddenly  she  took  it  away  and  looked  sharply  at 
Mary  Alcestis. 

"This  is  n't  the  time  to  cry!" 

"You  cannot  understand,"  sobbed  Mary  Alcestis. 

"  Can  I  not?  "  said  Thomasina  softly. 

Mrs.  Lister  looked  at  Thomasina;  then  she 
crossed  the  room  and  sat  down  beside  her. 

"You  said  I  was  a  fool,  Thomasina.  I  was  just 
that."  She  stared  at  Thomasina  as  though  she 
saw  her  now  for  the  first  time.  She  did  not  even 
know  the  moment  when  Dr.  Green  left  them  to 
themselves. 

The  college  clock  struck  eleven  as  Dr.  Green 
went  through  the  campus  gate.  But  he  did  not 
go  home,  even  though  that  was  a  late  hour  for 
Waltonville.   He  went  across  the  town  to  the 


SOO  BASIL  EVERMAN 

little  gray  house  where  the  light  still  burned  in 
the  dining-room.  When  he  walked  in,  Mrs.  Bent 
looked  up  at  him  helplessly. 

"I  am  trying  to  talk  to  her.  I  tell  her  that  both 
of  us  was  wrong.  I  was  too  much  for  gayety  and 
going,  and  I  did  n't  appreciate  learning.  But  I 
appreciate  learning  now.  I  did  n't  know  I  should 
come  to  be  ashamed." 

Eleanor's  face  looked  frozen. 

"You  kill  me,  mother,  when  you  talk  about 
being  ashamed.  I'm  never  ashamed  of  you.  I 
don't  see  why  we  need  to  talk  about  it.  Let  it  go." 

"He  was  always  kind  to  you,"  said  Mrs.  Bent. 
"Your  books  he  gave  you  and  your  pie-anna  and 
even  your  name  that  you  like  so  well  and  your 
learning  and  you  get  your  mind  from  him,  and  — " 

"They  are  all  hers  by  right,"  said  Dr.  Green. 

"And  he  might  go  somewheres  else  and  be  a 
great  doctor.  I  heard  people  say  it  often.  I  was  hard 
to  get  along  with,"  sobbed  Mrs.  Bent.  "And  I  was 
afraid  you  would  grow  up  ashamed  of  me.  Oh,  I 
done  wrong!" 

Still  Eleanor  said  nothing. 

"Do  not  make  it  harder  for  us  than  you  must, 
my  dear,"  said  Dr.  Green  at  last.  "There  have 
been  some  matters  I  did  n't  give  heed  to  because 
I  wanted  you  to  come  to  something.  I  did  n't  know 
you  had  a  question  in  your  mind.  I  am  more  am- 
bitious for  you  than  I  was  for  myself.  An  early 
and  unconsidered  marriage  like  your  mother's  and 
mine  — " 

Now  Eleanor  lifted  her  head. 


LET  US  BE  FRANK  WITH  ONE  ANOTHER    301 

"Oh!  oh!  oh!"  she  cried  as  Mrs.  Lister  had 
cried. 

"What  is  it?"  asked  Dr.  Green.  "Let  us  be 
entirely  frank  with  one  another." 

"I  did  not  understand  that  you  had  married 
my  mother!"  cried  Eleanor.  "Oh,  I  think  you  have 
been  wrong  and  foolish  and  wicked,  not  so  much 
to  me  as  to  one  another!" 

At  midnight,  when  Dr.  Green  went  out  the 
little  gate,  he  saw  a  dark  figure  in  the  shadow. 
It  did  not  frighten  or  surprise  him. 

"Well,  Richard?" 

"I'm  not  going  in.  I  wanted  just  a  glimpse  of 
her,  that  was  all.  I  can't  stand  seeing  her  and 
talking  to  her  and  then  having  to  come  away." 

"You  have  had  your  glimpse?" 

"Yes.  I'm  fortified  till  the  morning."  Without 
further  confidences,  Richard  took  the  first  short 
cut  that  offered. 


CHAPTER  XXVII 

Epilogue 

In  late  August  of  the  next  year,  Thomasma 
came  slowly  across  the  green  from  the  Lister  house 
toward  the  campus  gate.  Mrs.  Lister  had  begged 
her  to  stay  longer,  but  she  had  felt  a  need  for 
quietness.  Mrs.  Lister  had  been  talking  about 
Basil;  she  had  not  yet  exhausted  all  possibilities 
for  conversation  in  his  strange  posthumous  fame, 
or  in  his  attachment  to  Thomasina,  so  long  unsus- 
pected. She  did  not  ask  many  questions  at  one 
time  of  Thomasina;  they  came  slowly,  a  question 
or  two  this  week,  another  question  next  month. 
Sometimes  she  wept. 

"There  are  times  when  I  can  see  just  how  I 
thought  that  dreadful  thing  about  Basil  and  there 
are  other  times  when  I  just  cannot  understand!" 

''I  wouldn't  think  of  it,"  said  Thomasina 
cheerfully.  "And,  anyway,  Mary  Alcestis,  you 
did  n't  hurt  any  one  but  yourself." 

A  flood  of  tears  choked  Mrs.  Lister's  voice. 

"I  could  explain  it  to  Basil.  He  was  always 
very  kind  and  understanding."  She  looked  at 
Thomasina  with  a  sort  of  angry  astonishment. 
"You  are  always  so  calm,  and  I  —  I  am  home- 
sick to  see  Basil.  I  shall  never  be  altogether  at 
peace  until  I  see  him." 
n  "  Yes,"  said  Thomasina, "  I  can  understand  that." 

"You  ought  to  be  with  Richard  as  much  as  you 


EPILOGUE  803 

can,'*  said  Mrs.  Lister.  "In  another  month  he  will 
have  gone  back  to  New  York." 

Thomasina  smiled.  Across  from  the  chapel  drifted 
the  sound  of  music.  Richard  had  spent  a  day  inside 
the  old  organ  and  had  coaxed  and  wheedled  it  into 
a  new  sound.  He  was  now  on  the  organ  bench  with 
Eleanor  beside  him.  For  Richard  at  his  happiest 
moments  there  was  still  a  favorite  form  of  expres- 
sion, the  chants  of  his  boyhood.  With  full  organ  he 
sang  the  Ambrosian  Hymn.  The  Gregorian  music, 
the  summer  evening,  Richard's  voice — Thomasina 
was  never  to  forget  them. 

"We  believe  that  Thou  shalt  come  to  be  our  Judge: 

We  therefore  pray  Thee,  help  Thy  servants:  whom  Thou 
hast  redeemed  with  Thy  precious  blood. 

Make  them  to  be  numbered  with  Thy  saints:  in  glory  ever- 
lasting. .  .  . 

O  Lord,  have  mercy  up)on  us:  have  mercy  upon  us. 

O  Lord,  let  Thy  mercy  be  upon  us:  as  our  trust  is  in  Thee." 

Then  Richard  established  a  deep  and  majestic 
foundation  for  his  clear  tenor: 

"O  Lord,  in  Thee  have  I  trusted:  let  me  never  be  con- 
founded!" 

"She  is  a  nice  girl,"  said  Mrs.  Lister,  her  voice 
trembling.  Music  was  still  terrible  to  Mary  Alces- 
tis.  "I  am  satisfied.  I  believe  she  will  make  a  good 
wife  to  Richard.  He  wants  her  to  write,  but  I 
don't  believe  she  thinks  much  about  writing  now. 
And  her  mother  is  a  nice  woman,"  added  Mrs.  Lis- 
ter. "She  has  excellent  ideas  and  she  has  trained 
Eleanor." 
^   Thomasina  intended  to  stop  for  a  moment  in 


304  BASIL  EVERMAN 

the  chapel  and  went  so  far  as  the  threshold.  Then, 
seeing  the  two  heads  close  together,  she  turned 
away.  She  did  not  fear  interrupting  Richard  and 
Eleanor — there  was  no  one  among  all  her  acquaint- 
ances, least  of  all  these  two,  whom  she  could  inter- 
rupt. But  she  turned  away.  Youth,  with  its  confi- 
dence and  its  ignorance,  was  alien  to  her  mood; 
youth  which  knew  nothing  of  heartache,  which  had 
no  visions  of  a  loved  body,  covered  —  how  many 
years  ago! — with  earth,  of  lonely  days,  of  nights  , 
filled  with  rebellion.  Even  Mary  Alcestis,  who 
thought  herself  so  wise  in  grief,  knew  nothing. 

The  Scott  house  was  closed,  the  Scott  family 
scattered,  in  happy  separation,  Mrs.  Scott  with 
her  son  at  Atlantic  City  and  Dr.  Scott  and  little 
Cora  exploring  in  Italy.  Thinking  of  them,  Thom- 
asina  smiled.  She  saw  Dr.  Scott  enchanted,  inar- 
ticulate. It  seemed  to  her  that  each  of  her  friends 
had  that  which  his  heart  desired — even  Mrs.  Bent, 
whom  Waltonville  still  called  Mrs.  Bent,  though 
it  knew  better,  who  stayed  in  her  little  gray  house 
adoring  her  household  gods,  and  even  Dr.  Green, 
who  seemed  to  crave  management  by  his  daughter. 
Neither  Dr.  Green  nor  Mrs.  Bent  felt  apparently 
any  reviving  flame  of  affection,  but  jealousy  at 
least  was  gone.  Both  now  had  Eleanor. 

Each  one,  it  seemed  to  Thomasina,  entering  her 
gate,  had  some  hearth  whereat  to  warm  himself, 
some  eyes  wherein  to  see  himself  reflected.  The  latch 
of  her  door  felt  cold,  the  cool  haH  vault-like.  The 
house  was  empty;  she  shivered  as  she  entered  it. 

She   moved   across   her   parlor.    On   the   shelf 


EPILOGUE  305 

nearest  her  throne-like  chair  stood  four  books, 
which  she  took  one  by  one  into  her  hand  and 
then  put  back.  All  had  been  completed  as  Dr. 
Scott  had  planned,  all  had  been  brought  out  in 
perfection  to  the  delight  of  the  discerning.  She  did 
not  open  them,  did  not  need  to  open  them  to  read. 

"The  admirers  of  Basil  Everman  are  grateful 
to  his  friend  Thomasina  Davis,  of  Waltonville,  to 
whom  he  wrote  constantly  during  the  last  years 
of  his  life  his  aspirations  and  his  plans.  Miss  Davis 
has  allowed  his  biographer  to  make  extracts  from 
his  correspondence." 

Here  was  fame  —  the  only  fame  for  which 
Thomasina  cared ! 

When  she  sat  down  before  the  garden  door, 
tears  were  in  her  eyes.  Her  flowers  oflFered  their 
incense  to  the  sky;  the  sound  of  Richard's  music 
was  carried  softly  to  her  by  the  evening  breeze. 
The  hour  was  enchanted.  She  was  too  wise  not 
to  know  that  it  was  a  space  set  apart,  that  un- 
happiness,  discontent,  a  fierce  resistance  to  life  as 
it  was,  would  have  their  hours  also.  But  this  was 
reality  —  to  that  she  held  with  a  divine  stubborn- 
ness —  this  hour  in  which  Basil,  young,  radiant,  im- 
mortal, stood  beside  her.  For  such  hours  as  this, 
infrequent  though  they  were,  she  had  declined 
other  loves,  refused  to  sit  at  warmer  hearths. 

"Saints,  apostles,  prophets,  martyrs. 
Answer  *  yes!  *  " 

remembered  Thomasina. 

"'I,  Sergius,  live!' "  said  she,  aloud. 
Then,  folding  her  hands,  she  sat  quietly. 


CAMBRIDGE  .  MASSACHUSETTS 
U   .  S   .  A 


THIS  BOOK  IS  DUE  ON  THE  LAST  DATE 
STAMPED  BET.OW 

AN  INITIAL  FINE  OF  25  CENTS 

WILL   BE  ASSESSED   FOR   FAILURE  TO   RETURN 
THIS    BOOK   ON   THE   DATE   DUE.   THE   PENALTY 
WILL  INCREASE  TO  50  CENTS  ON  THE  FOURTH 
DAY    AND    TO     $1.00    ON    THE    SEVENTH     DAY 
OVERDUE. 

)£C   2S  1937 

APR  25  1993 

'iUiODi^lClKC    VMi 

:  u  :j.. 

. 

LD  21-95rn-7,'37 

^S  40094 


U.C.  BERKELEY  LIBRAHiLb 


CD^Elfi3^afl 


^r^SSBT^BSfSEk. 


461960 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  UBRARY 


